THE CAT WHO SAW STARS_

After the thimbleberry pancakes, Tess took the yellow bus to the unsuspecting town of Brrr to propagandize for the Republic of Crowmania. Qwilleran drove to Mooseville for the dogcart races. Traffic was unusually heavy on the lakeshore road. Even before he reached the city limits he saw cars, vans, and pickups parked in farmyards, as well as on both shoulders of the road. Droves of pedestrians were walking toward downtown, where three blocks were blockaded. Only racing units and the cars of officials were admitted. Qwilleran showed his press card and was told to park in the marina lot. He had never seen so many kids in one place: clamoring for attention; shrieking for joy; crying; jumping up and down; getting lost; tussling. Adults, who were in the minority, had tots in arms, toddlers in strollers, and infants in backpacks. Both hotel lots were cleared for official use: one marked as a racetrack, the other serving as a paddock.

Wayne Stacy spotted Qwilleran and explained the system. Forty youngsters would ride in forty toy wagons hitched to forty family pets. There were boxers, retrievers, hounds, pit bulls, terriers, huskies, German shepherds, and one giant schnauzer, and plenty of mongrels, all classified according to weight. The young drivers had numbers on their backs; the dogs wore boleros in the family’s racing colors. One adult accompanied each racing unit in the paddock; a second adult

member of the family would stand at the finish line.

Over the years the event had become a carnival. Wagons were decorated with paint or crepe paper, and the young drivers were in costume. There were astronauts, ballerinas, red devils, pirates, cowboys and girls, clowns, and black cats mingling with the forty dogs, eighty adults, and numerous harassed officials.

Qwilleran said, “It looks like absolute chaos, but I suppose you’ve done it before.”

“We sure have! For thirty years,” said Stacy.

“Some of the young parents were once racers themselves.”

“Isn’t it somewhat hazardous?”

“We’ve never lost a kid or a dog, knock on wood.”

“Well, I wish you’d explain the procedure.”

“Okay. There are preliminaries, and there are finals. You announce the names and numbers of racers in each heat. Five units come from the paddock and line up. The whistle blows, and they’re off! Moms and dads wait at the finish line, cheering their dog on.”

“How do I know who’s who and what’s what?” Qwilleran shouted above the general noise.

“Cecil Huggins will hand you the information. At the end, you present two trophies - Class A and Class B. There’ll be picture-taking.”

“What are the trophies?”

“Inscribed mugs. Plus, every kid in the race gets an ice-cream cone and a little something to take home. Every dog gets a bone.”

“Do I present the bones?”

The two men had been shouting in each other’s ears, and when Qwilleran went to the mike, even his amplified voice could hardly be heard above the din. It doubled in decibel level when the first whistle blew.

Spectators cheered their favorites and screamed at unexpected happenings. Once, a basset hound left the track in mid-course and trotted to the sidelines for some sociability… Another time, two dogs who were neck-and-neck in the race started to fight and dumped their drivers… And then the giant schnauzer crossed the finish line and kept on going down Main Street, while the driver screamed and parents and officials ran in pursuit.

Through it all, Qwilleran gritted his teeth and did his job.

The grand champion in Class B was a yellowish, brownish mongrel in a denim bolero, with a four-year-old cowgirl at the reins.

“They’ve been training,” Qwilleran said to Cecil.

“All year long! They’re serious about this race.”

In Class A the champion was a black Labrador in a red, white, and blue bolero, with a seven-year-old astronaut for a driver.

Qwilleran said to the astronaut’s father, “Aren’t you with the Scotten Fisheries? I met you when I was doing a story on commercial fisheries. I’m Jim Qwilleran.”

“Right! I’m Phil Scotten. You went out with us, hauling nets. You wrote a good article.”

“Thanks. It was a priceless experience… Nice dog you’ve got.”

“Right! Einstein is a retired G-dog, trained to do drug search. Very intelligent. He’s what they call a passive searcher. When he detects some thin’, he just sits down.”

“Is that so?” Qwilleran patted his moustache as a whimsical idea occurred to him. He considered it further as he walked down to the waterfront parking lot, where racing units were being loaded into pickups.

He approached the Einstein team and said, “I just had a crazy idea. There’s a boat over here that I’m thinking of buying. Would Einstein give it a sniff?”

“Sure. He’d probably enjoy it.” The two men and the dog walked over to the Suncatcher and went aboard. Einstein gave a passing sniff at the stain on the deck and the dark spots on the transom, but it was the cabin that interested him. They took him below. He inspected everything - and sat down.