The Cat Who Dropped a Bombshell

There had been a reason why Pickax could not, or would not, emulate the clever slogan of Brrr's anniversary. It was a matter of pride, trivial though it might seem to outsiders. Pickax was bigger, but Brrr was older. The antagonism was felt even at soccer games, after which fans always rioted - that is, until the sheriff started attending with his dog.

It all started circa 1850 when the first settlers arrived in sailing ships and made camp on the shore of a natural harbour.

They called it Burr, a good Scottish name. When a sign painter made a mistake on an official sign, spelling it Brrr - since it was the coldest spot in the area - the residents, with good pioneer humour, decided to keep it.

Fifty years later, when the territory became a county, the town of Brrr expected to be the seat of government, but the founding fathers were obliged to look ahead and choose a central location for the county seat.

Now comes the romantic part. The government surveyors assigned to choose a site happened upon a rusty pickax wedged in a tree stump at a point where two trails crossed. And that is how the county seat became known as Pickax City. The historic artifact that inspired the name was now exhibited in the city council chamber.

But that was way back when. There were great accomplishments to celebrate in Pickax Now !

Qwilleran also heard the "handy myth" from Polly Duncan, the chief woman in his life. She lived in a condo three doors away, but they ended each day with an eleven PM tête-à-tête by phone.

She had recently exchanged a career as director of the public library for a new challenge as manager of a bookstore. Both jobs made one privy to the latest rumours, and Polly always passed them on to Qwilleran. He himself was not prone to gossip, but he had no compunctions about listening, especially if the scuttlebutt came from an impeccable source, such as Polly.

On this phone chat she said, "Everyone's delighted with the name of the celebration! It was said to be the result of a committee brainstorming, but there is a rumour that it came to Hixie Rice in a dream, and I tend to believe it. How about you, Qwill?"

Astutely he replied, "The important thing is what not how. The name puts an auspicious slant on the celebration."

"You're so right, dear. . . . What do you think I should wear to Mildred's dinner on Sunday? If the weather continues nice, she might serve on the deck."

"If she does or if she doesn't, I'd like to see you in your new blue pantsuit."

Blue enhanced the freshness of her complexion, the sparkle in her eyes, and the silvery glints in her well-coiffed hair, which may or may not be attributed to her belief in broccoli, leafy green salads, and a banana a day.

"Eat your broccoli," she would remind Qwilleran when they dined out.

"Are you taking anything to the party, Qwill?"

"A bottle of something . . . Pick you up at one?"

"I'll be ready. Come in and say hello to Brutus and Catta. Good night, dear.À bientôt!"

"À bientôt!"

Qwilleran was grateful that Polly had survived the stress of a major job transition and was her amiable self again.

The four neighbours who met to have Sunday dinner were comfortable friends. The hosts were Arch and Mildred Riker. He was editor in chief of the Moose County Something; she was food editor of the paper. The two men had been chums since kindergarten in Chicago. Their rapport was casual to say the least.

The weather was pleasant, and they had cocktails on the deck: sherry for the women; Squunk water with cranberry juice for Qwill; a martini for Arch.

Polly raised her glass in a toast. "Here's to the beautiful people!"

"Don't forget Arch!" said his old friend.

Huffing testily, Arch said, "We got a blistering letter from one of your devoted readers complaining about your repeated use of the C word in your column. He's threatening to cancel his subscription."

"Let him cancel! I know him, and he's a cat hater. There are twelve million cats in Moose County, and I happen to live with two who are smarter than he is."

Mildred said, "Maybe you should set him straight, Qwill. Write him a strong letter. You're good at that!"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mildred, but it's unsportsmanlike to engage in a battle of wits with anyone who is obviously unarmed."

"Bravo!" said Polly. "I hear we're going to have an heirloom auction as part of Pickax Now. "

Mildred squealed with excitement, "And an arts and crafts show, and three parades. It's going to be so thrilling!"

Polly concurred. "And Hixie's name for the celebration is brilliant! The committee had been floundering around for months, and the name suddenly came to her in a dream!"

"That can happen," Qwilleran said quietly, suppressing a chuckle. "The way it's shaping up, I can expect a deluge of ideas for the ?Qwill Pen' column, and I won't have to go through trash barrels."

Arch jumped in. "How about writing three a week instead of the usual lazy two?"

"Only if I get a fifty percent raise."