and renting an apartment from the art critic, who owned an old Victorian mansion. He called himself George Bonifield Mountclemens the Third. He was a pompous donkey!, and no one really believed his name. But he lived upstairs among his art treasures with a Siamese cat named Kao K’o Kung. When Mountclemens was killed, the cat moved in with me and became known as Koko.
But I always thought, If I ever meet anyone from Milwaukee, I’ll ask some questions: Is there a Mountclemens family there? Is there a cat breeder specializing in Siamese in Milwaukee?
This “Lish” person may be the one to ask.
FOUR
On Friday morning Qwilleran finished writing his discourse on the month of June, making it a little shorter than the traditional thousand words. In the last few weeks he had appended his column with a few words of catly wisdom from
“Cool Koko says: Half a dish of cream is better than none. . . . Opportunity only knocks once; grab that pork chop while no one’s looking. . . . Why sing for your supper? It’s easier just to stare at your empty plate.”
The “Cool Koko” stunt had started when Qwilleran was researching Benjamin Franklin for his column and decided to parody
Qwilleran, who admitted to having a short attention span, was tired of writing about Cool Koko. The mail room at the news office was swamped with postcards suggesting bits of catly wisdom. The editor, Arch Riker, accused Qwilleran of trying to start a new cult.
And so, on that Friday, the “Qwill Pen” ended with an announcement in boldface caps:
COOL KOKO IS ON VACATION INDEFINITELY
Then, with a light heart, Qwilleran went to the beach, taking the Siamese. It was only a brief inspection trip; O’Dell’s cleaning crew had been there to air it out, wash windows, check the facilities, dust, and sweep. It was to be hoped they had also tidied the driveway and grounds of fallen branches.
The Siamese went along, contentedly snuggled in their carrying coop. How did they know they were going to the beach and not to the vet? They could smell the lake a mile before they reached the shore and made small pleasurable noises.
When they reached the lakeshore, the highway dipped in and out, with occasional glimpses of the vast expanse of blue water. The noise in the back-seat increased. Then the car turned off into the K property on a dirt driveway that wound through a dense growth of wild cherries and scrub oaks, emerging on the crest of a sand dune.
There stood the venerable log cabin with its mammoth fieldstone chimney and magnificent view of the lake. The occupants of the carrier thumped around, rattled the door, and squealed with joy.
Qwilleran went indoors first to be sure everything was secure, then brought in the cats. It would take them an hour to sniff the two screened porches, the rugs and furniture of the interior, the hand-hewn mantel over the stone fireplace, the rafters overhead, the accoutrements of their feeding station, the gravel in their commode, and their empty water dish, which was quickly filled.
The refrigerator was empty, except for ice cubes, but Qwilleran had brought treats in a cooler.
On the lake porch there was a railroad tie upended and nailed to a base—intended as a pedestal for a copper sculpture of a sailboat. But Koko had claimed it as his own viewing post from which he could monitor the waving beach grasses, the beach at the foot of the dune, seagulls fighting over a dead fish, and beachcombers looking for agates. It was early season for traffic on the beach, but one couple wandered past: a young woman walking with a hiker’s stride and swinging arms, while a tall, lanky man shuffled along behind her, his hands in his hip pockets.
Qwilleran, who knew all the cottagers in the Top o’ the Dunes Club to the east, sized the strangers up as newcomers, guests of the regulars. When they returned a few minutes later and stopped to stare up at the cabin, he kept very quiet and motionless. The woman pointed to the cabin, as strangers often did, marveling at the age of the building or the size of the stone chimney. Strangers often pointed to the cats; some people, unfortunately, thought of Siamese as being an expensive breed, worth stealing, and Koko and Yum Yum were never allowed on the screened porch without a chaperone.
At any rate, the woman pointed and spoke to her companion at length, and he nodded without showing much interest.
It never occurred to Qwilleran that they were Lish and “Lush.”
