Whistling. What is it? Most people have done it at some point, probably. It involves the lips. Air comes out. A sound is produced. Why do people whistle? That is a question worth asking, though I won’t be answering it today, as my time is valuable and the citizens of Moose County are fortunate I am addressing the topic at all.
I was reflecting on whistling yesterday evening in the barn-turned-apple-barn-turned-residence that the Klingenschoen Fund so reasonably provides for me, tax-free, as a cultural preservation initiative, when Koko leapt to the top of the refrigerator and uttered a sound that can only be described as a whistle. Yum Yum tilted her head at precisely seventeen degrees. Coincidence? My moustache tingled violently, which as any serious journalist knows is more reliable than a police scanner. Koko has, of course, solved more homicides than the entire Pickax constabulary, which admittedly is kept very busy for a town of three thousand. One wonders how there is anyone left to murder, but that is neither here nor there.
Speaking of whistling, someone has been whistling near my bird feeders at night, which I suspect is a coordinated effort to attract my birds away from the premises, thereby wasting the birdseed I purchase at considerable personal expense. I mentioned this to the police chief, who seemed distracted by a recent string of arsons. Four this month. Is that a lot? Who can say?
Polly called to ask if I wanted to attend a whistling recital at the Pickax community center. I told her I would think about it, which is what I say when I have no intention of going but wish to keep my dinner invitations open. She makes an adequate chicken casserole. Can you put a price on a free meal? You cannot.
Koko, meanwhile, knocked a book off the shelf: *The Collected Works of Roger Whittaker.* Meaningful? Unquestionably. I have learned never to ignore Koko’s literary selections. The last time I dismissed one, a man was found dead in a ditch on Ittibittiwassee Road. Were these events connected? My moustache says yes.
Whistling is, in the end, simply air shaped by intention. Much like this column. The people of Moose County deserve to think about that, and I have generously given them the opportunity.
Whistling.
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