Dusting. What is it? Is it important? Some people seem to think so. I, for one, have never seen the point of removing a perfectly good layer of dust from a surface only to have it return within hours. But the residents of Moose County have opinions, and as the sole journalist of any real consequence in Pickax, I suppose it falls to me to address the matter.
Dust accumulates. That is a fact. It accumulates on bookshelves, on mantels, on the priceless Mackintosh coat of arms that hangs in the foyer of my barn — a property maintained entirely through the Klingenschoen Fund, which my accountants assure me is a perfectly standard residential-heritage-preservation tax arrangement. Why would anyone question that?
Koko, of course, has always had a sophisticated relationship with dust. Just last Tuesday, he sneezed three times while sitting on the Pennsylvania German Schrank. Three times. Not two, not four. Three. I felt a distinct tingle in my moustache, which historically has preceded the solving of at least fourteen homicides in this town of three thousand people — a rate that no one here finds remarkable. Later that evening, Yum Yum batted a dust cloth off the counter with a gesture so deliberate that I can only describe it as editorial commentary.
Do people dust too much? Do they dust too little? Is dusting merely an excuse for snooping through another person’s possessions? I wouldn’t put it past certain Pickax residents. I keep my doors locked at all times, primarily because anyone could waltz in and abscond with two extremely valuable Siamese cats, but also because one cannot be too careful in a community where the volunteer fire department responds to arson calls with suspicious regularity.
Mrs. Fulgrove once offered to dust my barn for twelve dollars an hour, which I found excessive. I gave her eight and a sandwich, which she seemed grateful for. The K Fund reimbursed me for the sandwich, as it was consumed on a heritage property during what my accountants classify as a custodial consultation.
Koko refuses to let me dust near his favorite books. He growls. This is not ordinary cat behavior. This is intelligence. This is discernment. Who are we to argue with a cat who once identified a murderer by knocking a specific volume of Shakespeare off a shelf?
Dusting.
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