February 3
Unknown to the cats or the Nerdites, another meeting had preceded theirs. At Buell Library several prominent Shenangoers had met in the reference room to sip flavored coffee and discuss plans.
“We ought to have a parade,” slurped Mrs. Delahunty, the handle of her demitasse spoon poking her multiple chins.
Mr. Lang Porter shook his head. “No, no….too hard to organize. We should keep it simple. Just a key to the city….”
“We don’t have a key to our city,” said Maribeth Lucifer, the mayor’s wife.
Nelson Duggan, his alarmingly-thick glasses steamed foggy by the brew, sputtered like the outdated road wreck he was. “Just get a key, any key, just make one up, for God’s sake!”
“Really, Nelson, you needn’t get cranky.” Mrs. Delahunty’s fruity tones erupted into a full orchard belch.
Librarian Patricia Shawl thought things might be getting off track. “People! We’re trying to devise a way to welcome Mr. August Wrightley and his family…”
“And his factory!” Mayor Lucifer’s caterpillar eyebrows rolled enthusiastically up his forehead.
“Yes, well…we do want to tell them we’re happy they’re here.”
Cor had wandered up from the basement, attempting to focus his eyes on a cobweb draped across his face.
“Butterrum!” Miss Shawl greeted the cat’s approach. “Here kitty!”
He loped forward, avoiding the stares of the humans he passed, accepting some cream the librarian poured into a cup. As he jammed his nose into the china, Miss Shawl turned again to her human guests.
“I think,” she suggested, “we might invite the Wrightleys to a banquet at the Golden Apple Restaurant.”
Cor goggled at her, the cup dangling from his face. Then everyone turned as a small cough issued from the reference room doorway.
“Ross!” Miss Shawl welcomed the Shenango Sentinel publisher the same way she had beckoned to Butterrum.
“Are you sure this is how you want to proceed?” asked Ross.
“Whatever do you mean, Mr. MacNeal?” Mrs. Delahunty’s ample cheeks were flushed by caffeine.
“Well, we don’t know much about Wrightley, do we? Remember what happened in Ridgevale? People there named a street in honor of some corporate vulture who bought their struggling refinery. They felt pretty stupid when he sold the place out from under them. Nothing was left but that sign his name was on.”
“That was five years ago, MacNeal,” Duggan backfired, “and that was oil. We make specialty steel pipe here.”
“I suggest we look more closely into Wrightley’s record before we do any honoring,” Ross cautioned.
Mrs. Lucifer said, “Everybody knows August Wrightley is a Rhode Island VIP.”
Duggan’s temper stalled on the tiresome discussion he’d already endured. He crossed his arms and refused to engage further. So it was that when Miss Shawl rapped for order with her “OVERDUE” book stamp, everyone voted for the banquet unanimously, with one abstention: MacNeal’s.
Cor knew he wouldn’t make it to Mooner Farm in time for that night’s meeting, but he’d soon inform Beamer about this development as sure as his name wasn’t Butterrum.
I’m grateful for your support in making Shenango Cat stories possible. Any donation is appreciated!
BELOW ARE SOME REWARDS I CAN OFFER FOR YOUR GENEROSITY.
$5.00 – Your pet will be featured on this site as an official resident of Shenango.
$10.00 – You will receive an ORIGINAL ART CARD signed by me. Proceed to the Contact section to send me your contact details.
Shenango Cats 