THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

“I know the house, but I’ve never met the occupant. Is she a dowser, by any chance?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Qwilleran said, “My column in Tuesday’s paper was about dowsing, you know, sometimes called waterwitching. It’s controversial Down Below. How do you feel about it?”

” Most people around here wouldn’t start to drill a well without hiring a dowser to pick the spot,” Roger said. “It sounds crazy - using a forked stick to locate undergound water - but they say it works, so I don’t knock it. Qwill, how do you keep coming up with ideas for the ‘Qwill Pen’? I would’ve run dry along time ago.”

“It’s not easy. Fortunately I had a tenth-grade teacher who taught me how to write a thousand words about anything - or nothing. Talk about witches! That woman bewitched us with her big, round, watery eyes! Behind her back we called her Mrs. Fish-eye, but she knew her craft, and she knew how to teach! Every time I sit down at the typewriter to pound out another column, I mutter a thank-you to Mrs. Fish-eye.”

“I wish I could’ve had that kind of impact on kids in my history classes,” said the ex-teacher.

“Maybe you did. Maybe your students never told you. I never told Mrs. Fish-eye how I appreciated her, and now it’s too late. I don’t even remember her real name, and I doubt whether she’s still alive. She was old when I was in tenth grade.”

“You thought she was old. She was probably thirty.”

“True. Very true,” Qwilleran said, staring into his coffee mug.

“Say, Qwill, I’ve been meaning to ask: What’s that skinny bike I see you riding on Sandpit Road?”

“A British Thanet, circa 1950. A collector’s item. It was advertised in a bike magazine.”

“It looks brand-new.”

“It’s called a Silverlight. I can pick it up with my little finger. I believe Thanet was influenced by aircraft design.”

“It’s sure a slick piece of work,” Roger said.

“More coffee?” Lois yelled from the kitchen. She knew Qwilleran never said no to coffee. “Made a fresh pot just for you,” she said as she poured. “Don’t know why.”

“I don’t know why either,” he said to her. “I’m an undeserving wretch, and you’re a good soul with a kind heart and a sweet disposition.”

“Bosh!” she said, smiling as she waddled back to the kitchen.

“How’s your family, Roger?” Qwilleran regretted he could never remember the names and ages of his friend’s offspring, or even how many there were and which sex.

“They’re fine. They’re all excited about Little League soccer. I’m coaching the team, believe it or not - he Pickax Pygmies… How are your cats?” Roger was mortally afraid of cats, and it was an act of courage even to inquire about their health.

“Those fussy bluebloods are glad to be back in the barn after spending the winter in a condo; it cramped their royal style. I’ve just built a gazebo behind the barn so they can enjoy the fresh air and commune with the wildlife.”

“Speaking of barns, Qwill, I’ve got a great favor to ask.” Roger looked at him hopefully. “I’m the only reporter working weekends this month, and there’s a breaking story Saturday afternoon, but. .

. that’s when I’m duty-bound to drive a vanload of kids to the big game with the Lockmaster Lilliputians. I need someone to cover for me.”

“What’s the assignment?” Experience had made Qwilleran wary of substituting. “What’s the barn connection?”

“Well, it’s not exactly as exciting as a three-alarm fire. It’s in the metal storage barn at the Goodwinter Farmhouse Museum. It’s a dedication. An open house for the general public.”

“Hmff,” Qwilleran murmured. He remembered arriving in Moose County as a city-bred greenhorn from Down Below. Roger had been the first native to cross his path. Patiently and without ridicule, Roger had explained that the threatening footsteps thudding across the roof after dark were those of a raccoon and not a burglar. The hair-raising screams in the middle of the night were not those of a woman being abducted but a wild rabbit being seized by an owl. “Well, I suppose I could handle it,” he said to the anxious young reporter. “Spot news for Monday, I suppose.”

“Deadline Monday noon. Take pictures. Probably front page… Gee, thanks, Qwill! I really appreciate it!”

Roger looked at his watch. “I’ve gotta jump on my horse.”

“You take off. I’ll get the tab.” The offer was not all magnanimity; at the cash register it was possible to scrounge some turkey or pot roast for the Siamese.

“Do your spoiled brats eat codfish?” Lois inquired as she banged the keys on the old-fashioned machine. “Tomorrow’s special - fish ‘n’ chips.”

“Thank you. I’ll consult them.” He knew very well that Koko and Yum Yum turned up their well-bred noses at anything less than top-grade red sockeye salmon.