The Cat Who Knew Shakespeare by Lilian Jackson Braun Page A

sir.”
    “What are you selling? I don’t want to buy anything.”
    “I’m not a salesman. I’m looking for a hunter who drives a red Jaguar.”
    “Red what?”
    “A red car. Bright red.”
    “I don’t know,” the old man said. “I’m color-blind.”
    “Thank you anyway, Mr. MacGregor. Good day.”
    Still watching the goose, Qwilleran backed away. He had determined that Polly really lived in a cottage adjoining a farmhouse belonging to an elderly landlord named MacGregor. Satisfied, he drove back to town. The cottage, he remarked, was incredibly small.
    At two-thirty he rang the doorbell of a large stone house on Goodwinter Boulevard, to interview the eighty-two-year-old president of the Old Timers Club. The woman who came to the door was the right age, but he doubted that she could do headstands and push-ups.
    “Mrs. Gage is in her studio,” the woman said. “You can go right in – through the front parlor.”
    A gloomy cave of dark velvet, heavy carved furniture, and black horsehair upholstery led into a light, bright studio, unfurnished except for two large mirrors and an exercise mat. A little woman in leotard, tights, and leg warmers sat in lotus position on the mat. She rose effortlessly and came forward.
    “Mr. Qwilleran! I’ve heard so much about you from Junior! And of course I’ve read your column in the Fluxion.” Her voice was calm but vibrant. She threw on a baggy knee-length sweater and led him back into the suffocating front parlor.
    She was petite but not frail, white haired but smooth skinned.
    “I understand you’re president of the Old Timers Club,” he said.
    “Yes, I’m eighty-two. The youngest member is automatically appointed president.”
    “I suspect you lied about your age.”
    Her pleased expression acknowledged the compliment. “I intend to live to be a hundred and three. I think a hundred and four would be excessive, don’t you? Exercise is the secret, and breathing is the most important factor. Do you know how to breathe, Mr. Qwilleran?”
    “I’ve been doing my best for fifty years.”
    “Stand up and let me place my hands on your rib cage… Now breathe in… breathe out… inhale… exhale. You do very well, Mr. Qwilleran, but you might work on it a little more. Now, what can I do for you?”
    “I’d like to turn on this tape recorder and ask you some questions about the early days in Moose County.”
    “I shall be happy to oblige.”
    The following interview was later transcribed:
     
    Question: When did your ancestors come to Moose County, Mrs. Gage?
    My grandfather came here in the mid-nineteenth century, straight out of medical school. He was the first doctor, and he was treated like a blessing from heaven. There were no hospitals or clinics. Everything was primitive. He made house calls on horseback, sometimes ahead of a pack of howling wolves. And once, after a forest fire, when all the trails were impassable, he chopped his way through fifteen miles of debris with an ax in order to treat the survivors. They were burned and mutilated and blinded, and there were no medicines except what he brought in his knapsack.
    What kind of medicines did he have?
    Grandfather mixed his own and rolled his own pills, using herbs and botanicals like rhubarb powder and arnica and nux vomica. Some of his patients preferred old-fashioned remedies like catnip tea or a good slug of whiskey. They never paid for his services with money. They’d give him two chickens for setting a broken bone or a bushel of apples for delivering a baby.
    What kind of cases did he handle?
    Everything. Fever, smallpox, lung disease, surgery, dentistry. He pulled teeth with a pair of “twisters.” And there were plenty of emergencies caused by spring floods, poisonous snakes, sawmill accidents, kicking mules, saloon brawls. Amputations were very common. I have his collection of saws, knives, and scalpels…
    Why so many amputations?
    There were no antibiotics. An infected limb had to be cut off,