Suddenly the doorbell rang urgently and repeatedly. He swung his feet to the floor and hurried to open the door. Standing in the snow was a little birdlike woman with no coat, no boots, merely a shawl over her gray hair and around her thin shoulders.
"Please help!" she cried. "Our cat's trapped! She'll kill herself!" She pointed down the row of condos.
"Right away!" He pulled a jacket off the clothes tree and followed her through the snow in his bedroom slippers. She was one of the retired schoolteachers in Unit Two.
Their golden Persian had fallen behind the laundry equipment and was entangled in the works, struggling frantically, squealing piteously, and in danger of strangling.
"Stand back!" he said. "I'll pull the washer out. She'll be all right." Speaking reassuringly to the terrified animal, he extricated her and handed her to the small woman who had come to his door.
"Poor Pinky! Poor Pinky!" she sobbed, hugging and kissing her pet.
The other sister, a taller woman but equally thin, said emotionally, "How can we thank you, Mr. Qwilleran?" Then she saw him standing in a puddle of melting snow on the vinyl floor. "My heavens! Look at you! No shoes! You poor man! You must be frozen!... Jenny! Bring towels!... What can we do, Mr. Qwilleran?"
"Just give me a towel and throw my slippers in the dryer," he said, "and a cup of hot coffee wouldn't hurt." The aroma of coffee was drifting from the kitchen.
"Would you like some brandy in it? Come and sit down... Jenny, where's the heating pad? And bring the blue quilt!"
Pinky had disappeared, no doubt dismayed by the half-clad male intruder who now sat in her favorite chair, wrapped in the blue quilt, with bare feet bundled in a heating pad, while the two women fluttered about, worrying and trying to help.
They introduced themselves as Ruth and Jenny Cavendish. "We have two cats, and we know you have a pair of Siamese," Ruth said. "We read about them in your excellent column."
Jenny presented Pinky's partner, another golden Persian, named Quinky. "Actually, the names are Propinquity and Equanimity."
"Ideal names for cats!" he declared. This adventure, he thought, is going to pay off; already ideas were crowding his head. He gave his keys to Ruth, who brought his boots from the foyer of Unit Four, and his slippers were returned to him, warm and dry.
The sisters insisted they would be eternally grateful.
About the idea spawned by the adventure: He would write a trenchant treatise on the specialized art of naming cats (Polly, take note!) and would invite readers to mail in the names of their own cherished felines. As a columnist, Qwilleran was not averse to letting subscribers do his work for him. Reader participation, it was called. He knew Arch Riker would say, "Not another cat column! Please!" Let him scoff! Riker was not yoked with the responsibility of penning a thousand entertaining, informative, well-chosen words twice a week. For starters, Qwilleran made a list of well-named cats of his acquaintance:
Toulouse, a black-and-white stray adopted by an artist.
Wrigley, a native of Chicago, now living in Pickax.
Winston, the bookstore longhair, who resembled an elder statesman.
Agatha and Christie, two kittens abandoned in the parking lot of the library.
Magnificat, who lived at the Old Stone Church.
Beethoven, a white cat born deaf.
Holy Terror, the pet of a retired pastor and his wife.
Then he developed some of his pet ideas: Oriental breeds react favorably to names with an Eastern connotation, like Beau Thai and Chairman Meow. Others like important titles that bolster their self-esteem, like Sir Albert Whitepaws, Lady Ik Ik, or Samantha Featherbottom, even though these honorifics are used only in formal introductions; nicknames are acceptable for everyday use. A cat who dislikes his name may develop behavior problems, which are corrected when his name is changed from Peanuts to Aristocat. In three days a cat named Booby will adjust to the proud, Roman senatorial name of Brutus.
When deftly organized and couched in Qwilleranian prose, the ideas made a commendable "Qwill Pen" column, which concluded with the following:
Who are your cats? Write their names on a postcard and mail it to "Cat Poll" at the Moose County Something. The names may be clever, ordinary, bawdy, sentimental, silly, or scatological. This is not a contest! There are no prizes!
When Qwilleran handed in his copy at the newspaper, Junior Goodwinter said, "We've been swamped with phone calls from readers, wanting to know the four ways to pronounce February." He scanned the new copy in bemused silence until he reached the final paragraph. "Oh boy! Wait till the Lockmaster Ledger sees this! They'll think we've gone bananas. You say no prizes! You'll never get results without offering a reward. How many postcards do you expect to get?"
"A few," Qwilleran said with a shrug. "The point of the column is to get people thinking and talking."
The paper was on the street at mid-afternoon. That evening he received a phone call from a voice that was soft, gentle, and low. "Qwill, are you on speaking terms with me?"
"No, but I'm on listening terms," he said gently. "I've missed your soothing voice."
"Forgive me for being so peevish. I've always been touchy about Bootsie's name, I'm afraid. I don't know why. You're not the only one who's objected to it."
Qwilleran knew why. In naming her cat, she had made a bad choice, and she knew it, but she resented having it pointed out.
Polly said, "But your column gave me an idea. Do you really think Bootsie would adjust to a new name in three days? I'm thinking of calling him Brutus. This was the noblest Roman of them all!"
There were other calls that evening, one in the grating voice that made his blood curdle. "Hi, Qwill. This is Danielle. I've seen you out hiking on your snowshoes."
"It's cheap transportation," he said.
"How would you like to hike over here some afternoon and run lines with me, and maybe you could give me some advice."
"Thank you for the invitation, but I'm a working stiff, and my days are fully scheduled," he said, adding quickly, "How are the rehearsals going?"
"Oh, they're fun - "
"That's good. I wish I had time to chat, Danielle, but I have a houseful of guests here. Will you excuse me?"
"Dammit!" he said to Koko after hanging up. The cat was sitting on the table, slapping it with his tail-right, left, right, left.
The next call was more welcome, being the brisk voice that Celia Robinson used for undercover communication:
"Mr. Qwilleran, this is Mrs. Robinson. I'm going to Toodle`s Market tomorrow morning. They have a good buy on apples, and I know you eat a lot of apples. I'll pick up a bagful for you, if you want me to. I'm going at ten o'clock before they're all picked over."
"I'll appreciate that. Very thoughtful of you," he said.
At ten o'clock the next morning he found her in the fresh produce department at Toodle's Market, inspecting apples for bruises and wormholes.
Carrying the store's green plastic shopping basket, he sidled up to her and said loudly, "Do you think these are good eating apples?"
"They're Jonathans, a nice all-purpose apple." Then she added under her breath, "Had a long talk with Red Cap."
"Winesaps are what I really like."
"I think they're out of season... I've got the tape in my handbag."
Another customer joined them. "Aren't you Mr. Q? I think your column is just wonderful!"
"Thank you," he said as he loaded his basket with apples.
"I always clip it and send it to my daughter in Idaho."
"That's pleasant to hear." He moved away in slow motion, following Celia to the oranges. "How can you tell if these are good juicers?"
"I always look for thin skins... Meet me at the deli counter."
They separated, then met again where Qwileran was buying sliced turkey breast for the cats and some Greek olives for himself. Celia was eating cheese spread on a cracker. She slipped him something in a paper napkin and then disappeared in the crowd. It was the tape.