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They talked about many things. “If you would syndicate your column in theLedger, we’d run it on page one and it would double our circulation….

“Want to know something, Kip? Our office manager at the paper says that most of the mail that comes addressed to Koko has a Lockmaster postmark…. You’ve got a bunch of Koko-nuts around here.”

They mentioned the local election that was coming up. “The incumbent is sure to win,” Kip said. “The challenger is confident, but…as the saying goes, he couldn’t get elected dogcatcher!”

Then Kip made a suggestion that launched Qwilleran like a rocket. It was just what he needed under the present circumstances. “Were you ever involved in the Theater of the Absurd?”

“Yes, I was in New York and saw it at its best. I always wanted to write an absurdist play, but never did.”

“There’s talk about a revival. Would you be interested?” Kip asked.

“How about an original absurdist creation? How about:The Cat Who Was Elected Dogcatcher ?”

Then Kip changed the subject slyly: “Moira wants me to ask you if you’re still practicing medicine without a license. You could bottle this stuff and sell it.”

He referred to a humorous verse Qwilleran had composed for his last birthday. He brought a card from his vest pocket printed with a typical Qwilleran limerick:

An editor known as Kip

Is said to run a tight ship.

His heart is large,

He’s always in charge,

But he won’t take any lip.

The editor said, “Whenever I’m feeling below normal, physically or otherwise, I read your prescription and it gives me a boost.”

Qwilleran said, “I’ve been thinking of writing a book on the subject of humorous verse—”

“Do it! I’ll buy the first copies and give them to all my friends.”

As they talked, Qwilleran’s gaze was prone to wander across the room to a table where three women were lunching in unusual hats.

He remarked, “Polly would go for those bizarre hats, and she could wear one well.”

The editor corrected him. “Moira says they’re called art hats.”

“I beg everyone’s pardon” was the facetious apology. “Do you know the women who’re wearing them? They keep looking over here at us.”

“They’re looking at your moustache. They all know who you are. They see your photo in the Qwill Pen on Tuesdays and Fridays…. I still think you should syndicate it to theLedger. ”

“Pleasant thought, but it wouldn’t work.” He grabbed the check when it came to the table. “My treat. Tell Moira she can invite us to dinner when Polly gets back.”

The editor left, and Qwilleran signed the check and left a tip, noting that two art hats had left the room, and the other woman was still eyeing his moustache.

On the way out of the restaurant he said to the hostess, “I’m embarrassed. I know that woman at the fireplace table, but I can’t place her.”

The hostess’s face brightened. “There are usually three. The public library is closed on Thursday, and they call themselves the Librarians Who Lunch. That one is Vivian Hartman, the chief librarian.”

She looked very pleasant when he approached. Her hat, he noted, was brimmed and about a foot in diameter…two shades of velvet, and a large silk sash with a realistic peony.

“I beg your pardon, are you Miss Hartman? I’m Jim Qwilleran from theMoose County Something .”

“Yes, I know! Won’t you sit down?” she answered, and he pulled up a chair.

“I must say I admire the hats you ladies wear.”

“We make them ourselves…in memory of your Thelma Thackeray. Her brother Thurston had a veterinary hospital here. We’re still grieving over both of them. Not to mention her loss of twenty-five art hats.” She looked for his reaction.

He nodded somberly. “Did you know that they had been photographed just before the calamity?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “No one in Lockmaster knew!”

“Our photographer was commissioned, and I went along to hold his lights. I could show you a set of glossy prints—if you would come for lunch at my barn next Thursday,” he said. “Thelma had commissioned a California woman to write a book, but she lost interest when the hats were destroyed…. Perhaps…”

“Yes…perhaps,” the librarian said, “we might revive the idea.”

TEN

As F Day approached, Polly became more distracted. There was no time for dining at fine restaurants followed by a classical concert on the magnificent music system of Qwilleran’s barn. She spent her days instructing Judd and Peggy to take over the Pirate’s Chest in her absence. She spent her evenings making packing lists, reading about Paris, brushing up on her college French, having long telephone conversations with Shirley Bestover; Qwilleran felt left out. His offers of “any kind of assistance” were appreciated but apparently unneeded.

That evening and in those to come, Qwilleran took the initiative to phone at elevenP .M., knowing that Polly would be distracted with last-minute considerations of all kinds. She had not yet told him when she was leaving, and he stubbornly refused to ask. He said not a word about his Theater of the Absurd project (she had always despised that kind of play) or the Librarians Who Lunch.

Polly told him, “Wetherby Goode will take Brutus and Catta to the Pet Plaza and visit them twice a week. Isn’t that thoughtful of him? Dr. Connie will water my plants and take in my mail. We have such wonderful neighbors at the Willows.” (Qwilleran had no comment.)

She said, “There’s a five-hour difference in time between Paris and Pickax, dear, so we’ll have to forgo our late-night chats.”

“I’ll give you a pocket recorder to take along, and you can dictate a running account of your adventures to bring home.”

He told her, “If any problems arise in Paris, don’t hesitate to contact me collect—at any hour of the day or night, regardless of time differential.”

When his parting gifts were delivered (blue gabardine for her, khaki gabardine for Shirley), the two women were overwhelmed. It was not until they had left for the Lockmaster airport in Shirley’s son’s limousine that Qwilleran felt at ease again, and not even lonely! After all, he had Koko and Yum Yum for companions, two columns a week to write for the newspaper. He was committed to deadline on Homer Tibbitt’s biography. He was working on his program for the Senior Health Club, to be given at the community hall since the redesigned building was far from complete. Also, the Literary Club’s visiting lecturer on Proust was scheduled to be his overnight guest at the barn. (He was said to be an ailurophile, so Koko’s aerial demonstrations would be amusing, not threatening.) Plus, to write a play in the absurdist style. All this…and Polly would be gone only two weeks!

Later that evening Qwilleran called Kip MacDiarmid at home. “Were you serious about my writing an absurdist play?”

“I think it would be a hoot,” Kip replied.

“Would you use the title I suggested?” Qwilleran asked.

“Why not? When can you do it?” Kip asked.

“I’ve just done it; it took half an hour. I’ll send it to your office by motorcycle messenger in the morning.”

THE CAT WHO GOT

ELECTED DOGCATCHER

A Play in One Act by Jim Qwilleran

CAST

Man with dog on leash

Woman with cat in arms

Street sweeper with broom

SCENE

A park with trees painted on background…park bench in bright green, center front…Trash barrel overflowing in rear.

WOMAN(to cat in arms): Stop complaining, Jerome! If I put you down in the wet grass, you’ll only want to be picked up again.

EnterMAN (with dog tugging on leash):No, Eugene, it’s against the law. (Sees woman.) Oh, hi! Hi!