The Cat Who Smelled a Rat_txt

At the entrance an older woman greeted Qwilleran with an exuberant hug and shook hands with his guests. She was Maggie Sprenkle, the same rich widow who had donated the bronze plaques, who served loyally on the library board, and who spent long hours at the animal shelter as a volunteer.

Many of those in attendance had bought tickets to support a good cause and spent their time circling the refreshment table in the center of the hall or making friends with the puppies and kittens waiting to be adopted, yipping and mewing, extending paws through the bars of their cages. Serious auction-goers headed for the bidding tables, where antiques, decorative objects, and handcrafted items were on display.

There were rows of folding chairs here and there, where guests would sit and sip punch. Maggie, a gracious hostess, would ask them, “How do you like the punch? I made it myself… . Are you doing any bidding? Keep an eye on the bidding sheets, and don’t let anyone top you… . Every item is worth at least twice the minimum bid.”

Qwilleran perused the offerings quickly until he found the Danish rya rug, draped over a rack and spread out over a table. The bidding sheet said “Minimum bid, $500; Minimum raise, $50.” No names had been signed to the sheet; no bids had been made. He signed for five hundred.

The Rikers came along and Arch said in surprise, “Are you bidding on that?”

A check of the bidding sheets indicated that Polly was bidding on a pair of Italian porcelain parrots.

Arch, who considered himself a serious and knowledgeable collector, was bidding on a piece of rusty tin.

Qwilleran said to him, “Are you bidding on that?”

“It’s a fabulous piece of folk art in painted tin,” he was informed. “It’s a matchbox. The idea is that the cat scares the mice away from the matches.”

Guarding the matchbox was the head of a cat with large, rapacious eyes; its tail formed a hook for hanging on a wall.

“What are they bidding on this?” Qwilleran asked.

“It’s up to two-fifty. I am willing to go three.”

“Three hundred?”

“Even at that it’s a steal!” A connoisseur of old painted tin, Arch had built an enviable collection Down Below, only to lose it in a divorce settlement. His ex-wife then had the effrontery to open an antique shop and name it Tin ‘n’ Stuff.

Qwilleran said, “Nice piece of tin. Hope you get it.”

He himself went back to the Danish rug to check the bidding. There was not a single name on the sheet, other than his own. Chuckling to himself, he raised his own bid and signed Ronald Frobnitz. Then he went in search of Polly.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“They’re pushing the prices too high. I’m dropping out. How about you, Qwill?”

“Someone else is bidding on the rug that Fran Brodie wanted me to have, but I’m keeping my eye on it.”

The crowd was moving toward the stage at the end of the hall, and he rounded up his party for a show featuring professional canines and their handlers.

First there was a German shepherd from the Moose County sheriff’s department, trained for search and rescue. He had found lost children, missing persons, fugitives, and accident victims. He listened modestly as his handler extolled his intelligence and perseverance. “Henever-gives-up!”

From Bixby County came a black Labrador retriever trained for drug searching. She amused the audience by retrieving a folded towel again and again with unflagging enthusiasm. Her handler said, “In training sessions, narcotics of different kinds are wrapped in the towel. In a drug raid she can spot nine kinds of contraband.”

The audience waited expectantly for another extraordinary dog, when who should amble on stage but the six-foot-eight Derek Cuttlebrink with his guitar. The audience screamed and applauded. After strumming a few chords with a bouncy rhythm, Moose County’s favorite young-man-about-town sang with a nasal twang:

I found my puppy in Pickax At the animal shelter one day.

I was feeling down

When I come to town, And I took him home to stay.

He was jest a li’l white puppy With a black spot round his eye,

But he bumbled and he yipped,

And he nuzzled and he nipped, And he kissed my blues goodbye.

“Sing it again!” everyone yelled.

He strummed a few chords. “Everybody sing!”

Loudly, and unsure of the lyrics, they sang, “I found my puppy in Pickax… da-duh, da-da-da da da da da …”

Polly groaned.

“They like it,” Qwilleran said.

“It’s the kind of inane jingle that haunts one. I’ll have to hum the Hallelujah Chorus to get it out of my mind.”

Derek loped off the stage with the lazy, long-legged gait that his groupies adored.

“You know, Qwill, Maggie Sprenkle commissioned him to write it for the occasion, but he wouldn’t take money for it.”