THE CAT WHO SANG FOR THE BIRDS

“Ramsbottom will be paying the piper at long last, if that’s any consolation, My sons were talking to the county engineer. It looks like the twelve acres of paving will be ditched. The hundred acres he bought from Maude Coggin will be going up for sale - to help cover legal fees, I suppose.”

Qwilleran asked, “Have you heard anything about the cemetery expansion? That was part of the hundred acres.”

“I think that deal hadn’t really gone through. The news must have been leaked prematurely, for some nefarious reason… Do you have time for lunch?”

“Not today, thanks. I have another appointment.”

His appointment was at the public library, where he was to draw the winning names for the two mascots.

At the library a crowd of a hundred or more waited for the drawing. Qwilleran took his place behind the circulation desk, on which were two boxes of names and one nonchalant he-cat.

“Tradition requires,” he announced, “that we draw three names, and the third is the winner. All in favor?”

“Yea!” they shouted. It was the loudest clamor that had ever shaken the walls of that cathedral of information.

He stirred the contents of the she-cat box and withdrew the first non-winner: Bertha. There was a disappointed “Aw!” from one person in the crowd.

The next non-winner was Minnie K, bringing a number of regretful wails. Minnie K was a prominent figure in Moose County history, but that was a long, indelicate story; the K stood for Klingenschoen.

Qwilleran shook the box vigorously before drawing the winning ticket. “And she-cat will hereinafter be known as …Katie!”

There was a scream of delight, followed by applause from the others.

“Where is she? Katie, come and take a bow!”

Someone found her, and he held her up for all to see. She was soft and fluffy, quite different from the sleek Siamese he brushed daily. He would be in the doghouse when he returned home; Yum Yum would resent his being chummy with another female.

The audience waited expectantly for the next drawing. To prolong the suspense Qwilleran recited a limerick he had composed for the occasion:

An amorous tomcat named Jet Loved every she-cat he met, But one day he got ill And they gave him a pill, And now he’s suing the vet.

The limerick was received with laughter and screaming - another affront to the staid old building. Qwilleran went on: “Okay, friends, are you ready to name this handsome fellow who is said to be a retired gentleman cat?”

“Yea!”

The first ticket drawn was… Moose. The second was… Dickens. “And the winning name is” - Qwilleran. blinked at the. Ticket - “the winning name is Mackintosh!” It was his own middle name.

A young woman was squealing and jumping up and : down. “That’s my ticket!” she shouted.

“Good choice! What gave you the idea?”

“My family has an apple orchard. I thought we could call him Mac.”

“And so,” Qwilleran concluded, “let us welcome as official library mascots, Mac and Katie, who will do their purr-sonal best to make this a friendly place to browse or borrow books!”

In the days that followed, Moose County had more on its collective mind than Mac and Katie, or the spelling champs, or even the tragedy at Bloody Creek. ; In coffee shops and on street comers they talked about nothing but “the commish.” All who had voted for him, praised his barbecue, winked at his kickbacks, and accepted his small bribes began circulating unsavory stories. They all knew what had really happened in the Campbell scandal. They all knew about Bunny. They said his wife was a saint; she’d stand by him, in spite of everything. They speculated that the house in the Hummocks would be sold, and Mrs. Ramsbottom would go to live in Ittibittiwassee Estates… Even so, some were confident that “the commish” would wiggle” out of the charges.

Qwilleran and his attorney moved fast to arrange for the purchase of the Coggin land by the K Fund, which would put it in conservation for agricultural use: A search for Coggin heirs, as required by law, had so far produced no claimants for the contents of the coffee can.

Then there was an interesting political side effect: the sudden death of the proposed “weed laws” and “road improvements” in West Middle Hummock. Since their promoter was awaiting trial on criminal charges, the legislation was unpopular with both the lawn faction and the naturalists in that picturesque community.

One afternoon Paul Skumble delivered Polly’s portrait to the barn and helped to hang it in the suite on the first balcony.

“I like it,” Qwilleran said as he wrote the check. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, I’m quite proud of it,” the artist admitted. “I think I captured her innate intelligence and compassion.

She was a charming subject - cooperative and never bored or nervous.”

“I wonder what will happen to your portrait of Ramsbottom. The restaurant is closed.”

“I know one thing: it will appreciate in market value because of the notoriety. Meanwhile, it would be an honor to do your portrait without charge.”

“Are you still adamant about not painting cats?”

“I’m afraid so,” Skumble said.