The Cat Who Had 60 Whiskers

“There’s a retired professor in Lockmaster who’s an authority on Proust, and he’s coming to lecture…. It would be nice, Qwill,” Polly said, “if you’d put him up at the barn for one overnight.”

Qwilleran said, “I’m sure it would make a good perk in addition to the modest stipend you can afford. Koko has been making aerial attacks. On ailurophobes. I hope this speaker likes cats.”

The foursome moved to the deck for coffee and Polly’s homemade chocolate brownies. Jet Stream accompanied them on a leash, because of the recent scare about rabid wildlife. There had been a time when cats were free to visit the creek and watch the fish and birds. Now there was evidence of rabid skunks, raccoons, and foxes. What had happened?

Joe explained, “Too many house pets are getting mixed up with rabid wildlife!”

Polly said she had never understood the nature of rabies.

“An infectious disease common to some forms of wildlife,” Dr. Connie said. “It’s transmitted through the saliva when rabid animals get into fights with household pets and bite them. The best safeguard is the leash or the cage. Otherwise they’ll see something move on the bank of the creek and be off for some fun!”

Qwilleran said, “We never had rabid animals in downtown Chicago—only kids with slingshots and careless truck drivers.”

Then Qwilleran broached the subject of Koko’s sixty whiskers, and Dr. Connie said, “I can’t imagine that Koko was enthusiastic about your counting them.”

Qwilleran said, “I gave him a mild sedative that is used in the theater when cats are to be onstage.” He was the first to say he had to go home and feed the cats. The women said the same thing. As a farewell, Joe sat down at the piano and played “Kitten on the Keys” very fast!

Someone said, “We must do this again soon,” and everyone agreed.

Qwilleran escorted Polly to Unit One and went in to say good night to Brutus and Catta, as he always did.

After Joe’s fast pace at the piano and after the nonstop friendly chatter, Qwilleran welcomed a quiet evening with the Siamese. Driving home, Qwilleran remembered growing up in Chicago and hearing his mother play “Kitten on the Keys”—and marveling at how her fingers flew over the keyboard. Now Joe Bunker played it twice as fast! Where did he get his nervous energy? He grew up in the town of Horseradish, inhaling all those powerful fumes. Joe had a cousin with a Ph.D. in corvidology, and she was as wacky as he was.

Entering the barnyard, he saw Koko cavorting in the kitchen window. He knew what that meant.

Two cats—Where’s our dinner? We’re starving!

One cat—There’s a message on the phone.

The call was from Judd Amhurst, one of the three judges assigned to select a new name for the facility.

“Qwill! We’ve got the name! And it’s perfect! It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper, but if you can’t wait, give me a call.”

Judd lived at the Winston Park apartment complex—just across from the bookstore where the judging was scheduled to take place.

Never comfortable with unanswered questions, Qwilleran phoned him immediately. “Judd, don’t keep me in suspense!”

“Well, Maggie, Thornton, and I met in one of the community rooms at the bookstore big table! Bushels of entries! We started reading them aloud. Most were ordinary. Some were silly. A few had possibilities. Then Thornton read one from Bill Turmeric of Sawdust City—”

“I know him!” Qwilleran interrupted. “He writes clever letters to the editor.”

“You’ll like this one! It’s complete with a motto!” Then he read: “Senior Health Club—Good for the Body, Good for the Mind, Good for the Spirit.”

“Sign me up!” Qwilleran said. “Am I old enough?”

“I thought you’d like it, Qwill. We sorted through all of them, but this was the best.”

“What’s the prize?”

“The paper’s giving two hundred dollars, and there are gift certificates from merchants.”

“Well, thanks for tipping me off. I’ll devote Tuesday’s column to the Old Hulk—Its Past and Future.”

Qwilleran started making notes for his Tuesday column:

Feed-and-seed warehouse.

Served farmers for more than a century.

Called the Old Hulk.

Typical warehouse: flat roof, no windows, loading dock.

Interior: nothing but open space with lofts for sacks of feed and seed, connected by ramps. In-town location no longer serviceable to today’s farmers, who prefer more accessible outlets located at handy locations around the county.

Property vacant for several years.

Will need public entrances, windows, five floors connected by stairs and elevators, plumbing, electricity, and a lot of paint and carpet and ideas!

Why not a roof garden?

In his journal he would write:

The Old Hulk was a piece of abandoned property on the north edge of Pickax, recently purchased by the Scottish community and given to the city as a senior center, along with a grant covering complete remodeling, redecorating, and furnishing.