Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 14 Who Wasn't There

"He's the Shakespeare of cats, the Beethoven of cats, the Leonardo of cats!" Hearing his name mentioned favorably, Koko rose and stretched his rear chassis, then extended his forelegs with spreading toes, after which he jumped down from the refrigerator with a thump and an involuntary grunt and ambled over to Qwilleran to sniff the foreign aromas. Who could say what scents were registered by that twitching nose? Old castles? Heather? Scotch broth? Fishing villages? Sheep?

A distillery? The bones of ancient kings? A battlefield soaked with blood 250 years ago?

"Did the cats misbehave in any way?" Qwilleran asked.

"Well, one of them stole my emery boards-- a whole pack of them, one at a time." "Petty larceny is Yum Yum's department. I owe you a pack. I'll take it out of her allowance. How about Koko?" "He did one naughty thing that gave me a scare," Mildred said.

"I was getting ready to take my diet pill, and he swooped in and snatched it. I was afraid he'd eat it and get sick, but he just punctured the capsule with his fangs." "Yes, he likes to sink them in soft, gummy things, like jelly beans," Qwilleran explained.

"Do I smell macaroni and cheese in the oven? All the time I was eating nettle broth, mutton pie, boiled sheep's tongue, and tripe and onions, I was dreaming about macaroni and cheese." "That's for our lunch," she said.

"I'm leaving some left-overs in the refrigerator for the cats- meatloaf, codfish cakes, terrine of turkey, and there's beef stew for you in the freezer. I've been cooking up a storm while you were away and having a wonderful time." After lunch, Mildred packed and moved out, and Qwilleran shut himself in his balcony suite until an operatic chorus outside his door reminded him it was time for dinner. The three of them snacked informally on the leftovers, and then he sprawled listlessly in his favorite lounge chair with no desire to read the newspaper or play the stereo or write a letter or take a walk or call anyone on the telephone. It was post-vacation lethargy. When the Siamese crowded around, having forgiven him for his unexplained absence, he stroked Yum Yum halfheartedly and told Koko without much conviction that he was a handsome fellow.

Impulsively, Koko jumped from the arm of the chair and walked deliberately to the large square coffee table, where Mildred had left a copy of the Moose County Something. Hopping to the tabletop, he stared down at the newsprint with a nearsighted gaze. Then, arching his back and bushing his tail and sweeping his ears back, he commenced a slow prance around the lead item on the front page. He circled it again and again in a hair-raising ritual that Qwilleran had seen before. It meant that Koko's extra senses were detecting a discrepancy that escaped human perception. Qwilleran felt the familiar crawling sensation in the roots of his moustache. There on page one was the three-column photo of Irma Hasselrich and the half page obituary.

Koko, he remembered, had howled at the exact moment of her death.

Without benefit of satellite he had known what was happening in a remote Scottish hamlet. Was it possible that the cat sensed more than that? Was Koko the source of the subliminal message urging him to return home early? Polly thought she had a remarkable rapport with Bootsie, but it was nothing compared to the mutual understanding that existed between Qwilleran and Koko. But no, he finally decided; it was all absurd imagining.

"I'm punchy from jet lag," he said to the Siamese.

"Let's turn out the lights and call it a day."

Seven

Back home in his own bed Qwilleran enjoyed a good night's sleep, but in the morning he was disoriented. He didn't know what day it was.

He knew only that it was Day Thirteen. After living in a tour induced limbo, where days had numbers instead of names, he had not adjusted to the standard calendar week. Consequently, the morning after Koko's macabre dance around Irma's obituary was Day Thirteen in Qwilleran's book. The sound of church bells ringing on Park Circle suggested that Day Thirteen might be translated into Sunday.