THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

Was it anger? Or was it grief? The so-called Butterfly Girl had been just another interview subject, another - newsworthy character, yet she had told him more about herself than he wanted to know. With an artist’s instincts she had wanted to carve her own career and design her own lifestyle. One of her major decisions had been wrong, only to be followed up by impulses of equal mischance. One recollection that infuriated Qwilleran was that jackass’s rude way of calling her Monkey. And she liked it!

-18-

The Siamese always had a calming effect on Qwilleran when he was perturbed by outside circumstances. With apologies for the delay he gave them their noontime treat and watched as they devoured the Kabibbles with serious crunching and rapturously waving tails. When the last morsel was gone, and no more could be found on the floor surrounding their plates, the two epicures washed up in unison: four licks of the paw, four swipes over the mask, four passes over the ear - all repeated with the other paw. The choreography was remarkable.

When the ritual was finished, Qwilleran announced “Gazebo!” They rushed to the coat hooks and looked up at the tote bag. Then, while they communed with the birds and bees, he settled down.to write another thousand-word opus for the “Qwill Pen.” Equipped with a legal pad, some pencils, and a little dog-eared book, he intended to start another Pasty War among readers of the Something.

The meat-and-potato turnover was a regional specialty 400 miles north of everywhere. Whether or not it should contain turnip was a hotly debated issue - and had been for more than a century. Now a historical recipe had turned up in a tattered book that Eddington Smith discovered among memorabilia from an old farmhouse. Excitedly he had phoned the barn, saying, “Qwill! Come quickly! I’ve found something!”

It proved to be a 1905 hardcover - thin as a slice of bread and brown with age and grease spots - and it contained a pasty recipe calling for “pig’s liver.” Qwilleran knew his readers would rise up in consternation. It would result in the biggest fracas since the controversy. over Tipsy’s feet in her portrait at the tavern. Now that the spell game was over, the public needed another electrifying topic to roil their passions.

The little book had been published, apparently, for families who raised hogs and did their own butchering. At one time in Moose County history that would include almost everyone. These folk would need ideas for using leftover ears, tails, entrails, and blood - from cattle and sheep as well as hogs. There were recipes for blood sausage, hog’s pudding, cow heels, and Scottish haggis. Qwilleran had eaten haggis at the annual Scottish night in Pickax, always curious about the ingredients. Now he knew and wished he had remained ignorant.

There were instructions for stuffing a boar’s head: “About the snout, you have to sew it to keep it shut. About the ears, you can stick a parsnip or carrot in them to keep their shape. And be sure that the head has a large collar.”

While concentrating on these esoteric details, Qwilleran became aware of a rumbling in Koko’s innards.

Then the ears of both cats pointed east as the crunch of footsteps was heard in the lane. Peevishly he set aside his writing pad and went out to confront the intruder. It was Culvert.

“Hi!” the boy said. “My mom sent you some cookies.” He handed Qwilleran a foil-wrapped package.

“Peanut butter and raisin. My favorite.”

“Well, thank you. Thank you very much!” said Qwilleran, whose list of favorites excluded peanut butter and raisin. “Tell your mother I appreciate her thoughtfulness.”

“Here’s a note.” It was signed “Dawn McBee,” and it read: “Rollo and I would like to say thank-you for everything you’ve done. You made Maude’s funeral important in ways no lone else could do. And her tombstone! - it’s so perfect, it makes me cry! Culvert was thrilled to see his pictures in the paper, and they actually sent him money, and when he was up on the stage with the Muckers, Rollo and I almost burst with pride. He spells that 28-letter word for everybody he meets. The Muckers are going to the World Series in September. Until then it’ll be kind of hard living with a ten-year-old who’s suddenly nine feet tall. He’s nine now, but he’ll be ten next month.”

Qwilleran said, “Congratulations on your spelling last night.”

“Do you want me to spell that word for you?”

“Not right now. I have work to do. Some other time… Would you like a cookie to eat while you’re walking home? Take two!”