The Private Life of the Cat Who... Read online

  Contents

  1. enter: kao k’o kung, howling

  2. enter: yum yum, shrieking

  3. confessions of a cat-illiterate

  4. the cat who had 60 whiskers

  5. yum yum the paw

  6. koko and the siamese rope trick

  7. yum yum and the interior designer

  8. koko and the rum tum tugger syndrome

  9. cats! who can understand them?

  10. the matter of the silver thimble

  11. cool koko’s almanac

  12. why do cats do what they do?

  13. do cats have a sense of humor?

  14. the day yum yum got out

  15. limericks: fun in the boondocks

  16. cool koko also says

  17. the fine art of naming cats

  18. yum yum and the queen-size bed

  19. koko’s unique social graces

  20. kidnapped!

  21. more cool kokoisms

  22. yum yum discovers her wings

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The private life of the cat who...

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2003 by Braun, Lilian Jackson

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1477-0

  A JOVE BOOK®

  JoveBooks first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: November, 2004

  Also by Lilian Jackson Braun

  The Cat Who Could Read Backwards

  The Cat Who Ate Danish Modern

  The Cat Who Turned On and Off

  The Cat Who Saw Red

  The Cat Who Played Brahms

  The Cat Who Played Post Office

  The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare

  The Cat Who Sniffed Glue

  The Cat Who Went Underground

  The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts

  The Cat Who Lived High

  The Cat Who Knew a Cardinal

  The Cat Who Moved a Mountain

  The Cat Who Wasnt There

  The Cat Who Went into the Closet

  The Cat Who Came to Breakfast

  The Cat Who Blew the Whistle

  The Cat Who Said Cheese

  The Cat Who Tailed a Thief

  The Cat Who Sang for the Birds

  The Cat Who Saw Stars

  The Cat Who Robbed a Bank

  The Cat Who Smelled a Rat

  The Cat Who Went Up the Creek

  The Cat Who Brought Down the House

  SHORT STORY COLLECTIONS

  The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

  Short and Tall Tales

  Dedicated to Earl Bettinger,

  The Husband Who...

  foreword

  James Mackintosh Qwilleran is a journalist who wrote for metropolitan newspapers from coast to coast before relocating in Pickax City, four hundred miles north of everywhere. Now he writes a twice-weekly column for The Moose County Something, and also keeps a personal journal of his off-duty experiences.

  Koko is a real cool cat who happens to have sixty whiskers instead of the usual forty-eight. Yum Yum the Paw, as she is known, is an adorable female who will steal anythingincluding hearts.

  These excerpts from Qwillerans journal include memories, thoughts, and ideas from the Qwill Pen column. Altogether its a drama starring two feline celebrities.

  Raise the curtain!

  Ill never forget those days! I was getting my life back on track. I had a job, writing features for the Daily Fluxion. I had a place to live, an apartment on the ground floor of an old mansion. And soon I would be getting a roommate!

  My landlord, who was art critic for the Fluxion, lived upstairs with his art treasures and a Siamese called Kao Ko Kung. Although I knew nothing about cats, I was enlisted for cat-sitting when the critic was out of town.

  He wrote his reviews at home and never went near the news office. According to conventional wisdom, he never went near the art galleries either, but wrote his nasty criticism off the top of his head. Among local artists he was well hated, to coin a phrase. So no one was surprised when he was murdered in his own backyard.

  That was the first time I heard the cats death howl, a blood-curdling experience!

  Kao Ko Kungthat smart cat!then walked downstairs and moved in with me. I recall giving him some turkey from the Press Club that I had been saving for myself.

  So here we were! Thrown together by fate! First thing I did, I changed his name to Koko.

  He made no objection. He knew which side his bread was buttered on! In the days that followed we invented games to play, both athletic and intellectual. I was at work all day but made up for it by reading to him every eveningeither the Daily Fluxion or the dictionary; he was not particular.

  Then I began to find fault with the old mansion. It seemed to be the ancestral domain of a dynasty of moths, which were eating holes in my bathrobe and neckties. But where could I move? Apartments in my price range specified no pets allowed. I discussed the problem with Koko, who listened thoughtfully. I told him that a friend of mine was going to Europe for three months and had suggested that I house-sit. Koko squeezed his eyes. We were getting to be pals. Then, to my surprise, he turned out be a self-appointed bodyguard and somewhat of a bloodhound!

  One day he wanted to go upstairs to his old haunt. The murdered mans treasures had been removed, but I had a key to the apartment and the supply of cat litter. But that cat seemed to have his own urgent reason; he ran up and down the stairs ahead of me in anticipation.

  Sure enough, there was a large tapestry still hanging in a hallway, and Koko was determined to paw his way behind it. When I went to his assistance, I discovered a door back there, which the landlord had found it advisable to conceal. It led downstairs to a small ground-floor apartment in the rear of the building, and it was filled with clues to the recent crime. It had been used as an artists studio and still had an odor of turpentine.

  Just as I was snooping around in amazement and Koko was getting some kind of catly high from the paintbrushes, I heard a key turn in the rear door leading to the backyard, and a big man walked in. For a moment we were both frozen in surprise. Then he looked about wildly, grabbed a palette knife, and came at me!

  Before I could find a chair to swing at him, Koko threw a catfit! The room seemed filled with snarling animals, attacking him from all sides with claws extended! I was able to clobber the guy, and we left him on the floor while we called the police. Koko spent the next few hours licking his claws.

  I was glad to move into my friends posh apartment on the fifteenth floor of the Villa Verandah. Koko seemed happy, too. I think he liked the view. Then one day I came home from work and found a large hole in the green wool upholstery of a fine wing chair. As I examin
ed it, with horror, Koko jumped onto the chair seat and upchucked a green fur ballstill moist!

  I immediately phoned the Press Club bartender, who always had the answer to all questions.

  He listened and said wisely, Sounds like an emotional problem. You need a psycatatrist. I can tell you where to find one.

  It sounded like a hoax, especially since the address he gave me was on the edge of the red-light district. And I was even more suspicious when I phoned for an appointment and was told to come alone without the cat... but I was desperate! I reported for the consultation.

  It was a tawdry house, but there were cats on every windowsill, and that was promising. I was welcomed by a kindly woman in a faded housedress accompanied by at least a dozen cats who seemed quite well adjusted. She ushered me into the parlor and gave me a cup of tea with the inevitable cat hair floating in it. No matter.

  What I learned, after stating the problem, was this: Siamese, when troubled, become wool eaters. My ties and bathrobe were undoubtedly wool. Koko was lonely because he was accustomed to having someone at home all day. He needed a nice little Siamese female for a companion. Neutering would make no difference. They would be quite sweet to each other.... I found this concept extremely interesting.

  Now all I had to do was find a little female Siamese....

  Panic time! Here I wasa lifelong cat illiterateinvolved in matchmaking between temperamental Siamese! I phoned the Press Club bartender for advice once more.

  Call the catteries listed in the Yellow Pages, he said with authority. Check the classified ads in the paper. Call the pet hospitals!

  I did. My efforts turned up only one available candidate, and the asking price was more than my weekly paycheck at the Fluxion. I was just getting back on my feet financially. I needed to make a down payment on a used car.

  Meanwhile I was afraid to leave Koko alone in the borrowed apartment; he might start eating the rugs! Once, as a test, I shut him up in the bathroom, and he howled so continuously and with such volume that there were five complaints to the manager.

  Someone suggested selling Koko; it would solve the whole problem.

  I considered that unthinkable. Already I felt a kinship with him that was hard to explain.

  Ill never forget the frantic search for a companion who would stop Koko from eating wool!

  She was a poor little rich cat when I first met her. Didnt even know her name. And she was the butt of arguments between husband and wife. He hated cats. She sat in a wheelchair all day, stroking the kitten on her lap. The little thing was a Siamese, she said, but so young that her brown points had not appeared. There was only a brown splotch on her nose. Her name was Freya, the woman said.

  The man, a jade collector, said her name was Yu, an Asian word for jade. I thought it was a ridiculous name for a cat. How would you call her? Youd have to say, Hey, Yu!

  I had gone there with a photographer to get a story on a fine old house that had been updated by a fine young designer. The Taits were supposed to be a fine old family, but there were signs that the family fortune had been squandered by the jade collector. Altogether, it was not a pleasant experience, but the photos were excellent, and it made a good story.

  Twenty-four hours after it came out, there was a scandalous development: burglary, sudden death, missing person, rumors of fraud, even murder.

  By this time, Koko had upchucked the memorable green fur ball, and I was searching for a female Siamese. I phoned the Tait house and learned that the poor little creature had been thrown out. Thrown out! Gulp.

  How she was rescued is another story. The facts are that I brought her home in a taxi; Koko was with me. We had a cardboard carton with air holes punched in the sides. I talked to her. Told her that her name was Yum Yum. She was quiet except when we turned a corner or passed a truck or stopped for a red light or exceeded fifty miles per hour. Then she would make a sudden ear-splitting screech that made it difficult for the taxi driver to keep his vehicle on the road.

  At the Villa Verandah, when we went up to the fifteenth floor in the elevator, the ascent did something to her littler interior; her piercing shriek made women faint and strong men wince.

  All that is over now. Yum Yum is happy. Koko has stopped eating wool.

  Weve been together several years now and the little girl has grown into a charming young ladywith some playful idiosyncrasies, like untying shoelaces, stealing small shiny objects, and losing her toys. Its obvious that Im smitten with the poor little rich cat. So are the readers of my column in The Moose County Something.

  She still utters a shriek when its least expected. But who could resist her winsome ways?

  When Im reading, she climbs up on the back of my chair and breathes hotly into my ear and then bites it ever so gently.

  When Im reading aloud, she puts her ear against my chest and purrs. She identifies the resonance, my vet explained, with her mothers breathing when she was in her womb. I dont tell that to everyone.

  Early in life my education in pet culture was sadly neglected. A dog said woof and a cat said meow; that was all I knew or cared to know. Not until middle age did I come face-to-face with the breed of feline called Siamese.

  Koko has a yowl at a decibel level sufficient to knock you over, and Yum Yum has a soprano shriek like a knife in the eardrum. Not all the time, of course. Under ordinary circumstances their conversation can be quite civilized.

  Koko has moments of irritability when he chatters ik ik ik as a royal put-down. (He knowseven if no one else doesthat he is descended from the royal cats of ancient Siam.)

  Yum Yums vocabulary was limited to a timid mm-m-m when she first came to live with us; her role as lap cat for an invalid had dictated a certain sickroom reserve. Eventually she learned yow from Kokoa fine all-purpose syllable that lends itself to a variety of meanings. The knife-like EEEK is her own idea. Thus far, no fatalities have been attributed to it.

  Yum Yum has one original expression that is demanding and yet sweetly definite at the same time. According to women friends, its onset coincided with the feminist movement. Yum Yum says, N-N-NOW.

  From the very beginning I knew Koko was a remarkable cat. But his gifts continue to amaze meand mystify me! Then I read somewhere that cats have forty-eight whiskers, including those feelers above the eyes that I call eyebrows. When I convinced that little devil to let me count his whiskers, I came up with a total of sixty! My journalists skepticism demanded a recount.... Sixty!

  Most cats, Im told, are nervous before a violent storm, and theyre being used to predict earthquakes. We have no earthquakes in this area, but Koko has a tantrum before a storm. Whats more, he is visibly disturbed when an intruder is approaching. He lets me know, several seconds in advance, when the phone is about to ringand whether to expect friend or foe. How does he know?

  One more puzzlement: He senses right from wrong! Not only when a faucet is dripping or the light has been left on in the broom closet; that little four-legged psychic knows good from evil.

  These are facts I have confided to only two or three persons, knowing that my close friends would decide I was cracking up.

  How Koko conveys his information seems too farfetched to believe, and really must be attributed to coincidence. He licks glossy photographs, pushes books off the shelf, and swipes small objects with bold impudence. Whenever this occurs, his bizarre action steers my mind in a certain direction. Since I often have my own suspicions, its possible to put two and two together.

  My source of personal hunches, strangely, is a tremor on the upper lip, causing me to pound my mustache. Ive been kidded about my overgrown mustache for years, and it has become part of my persona. Now I wonder if it helps me tune in to Kokos extrasensory perception. Im serious! Kokos sixty whiskers may be the catly equivalent of the optic fibers that carry information in todays digital world.

  Kao Ko Kung has ESP

  And a higher IQ than you and me.

  He loafs all day

  And has a devious way

&n
bsp; Of getting his gourmet meals for free!

  Everyone admires Koko, but everyone loves Yum Yum! Shes so dainty, so kittenish, so sweet! But dont be fooled! She has a mind of her own... and a talent for larceny! You see, she has this lightning-quick paw that darts out silently and pilfers some small shiny object. Over a period of time her loot has included a silver pen, a gold watch, a guests lipstick, a silver cigarette lighter, and another guests left earring, pulled off when she used the phone and found under the sofa several weeks later.

  The police chief visits us occasionally, and Yum Yum has designs on his badge but contents herself by untying his shoelaces.

  She stole my toothbrush twice before I learned to keep it under lock and key. She is fascinated by brushes, including the one on my upper lip. The famous paw reaches out and touches my mustache with wonderthis when Im in my lounge chair and shes perched on my chest.

  Speaking of toothbrushes, I recall an incident one winter when we were living in Junktowna street of Victorian town houses occupied by antique shops, with studio apartments upstairs. I was writing a series on Junktown and rented a second-floor-rear for a few months. It had been owned by a famous editor and abolitionist in the nineteenth century. The cats were fascinated by the pigeons in the backyard; I was fascinated by the extensive bookshelves and quantity of old books.

  One day a toothbrush (not mine) appeared in the middle of the floor. Yum Yum looked guilty but refused to answer questions. I threw the toothbrush away.

  A few days later, I was visiting my neighbor in second-floor-front when I noticed a red feather on the carpet. It was my feather! It had recently disappeared from the brim of my tweed porkpie! You see, in the nineteenth century the house had been a part of the Underground Railroad, harboring runaway slaves. There was a tunnel concealed in the bookcases, and Yum Yum had sneaked through, exchanging my feather for my neighbors toothbrush!