Twine. What is it?
That is the question I found myself pondering this morning while seated in my favorite chair in the apple barn, watching Koko bat a small ball of twine across the floor with what can only be described as deliberate, calculated genius. Most people would see a cat playing. I saw something deeper. My moustache told me so.
Twine is string, but thicker. It holds things together. Farmers use it. So do sailors, probably. One could argue that twine holds Moose County itself together, both literally and metaphorically, though I will not be the one to argue that because I have a deadline and Lori is expecting this column in forty minutes.
But what do we really know about twine?
Yum Yum, who has never been wrong about anything, refused to touch the ball of twine, which I interpreted as a warning. About what? I cannot say. But the last time she refused to touch something, the Pickax fire department responded to three arsons and a suspicious death at the Goodwinter farmstead. Coincidence? Who can say. Not me. I was home all evening, which several people can confirm, and I resent the implication.
Twine costs money. I purchased this particular ball at Scottie’s store for $3.49, which I intend to deduct as a research expense through the Klingenschoen Fund. Some might call that excessive. I call it journalism. Is there a difference? Probably not.
Speaking of expenses, someone has been stealing birdseed from my feeder again. Squirrels, most likely, though in a town that averages four homicides per quarter, one cannot rule out more sinister motives.
Koko has now unraveled the entire ball of twine and arranged it in a pattern across the kitchen floor that resembles, unless I am mistaken, the county road map. He looked at me and said “YOW,” which I believe translates roughly to “you’re welcome.” The cat is smarter than half the Pickax city council, and I include the mayor in that arithmetic.
What is twine, ultimately? It is twine. Does it matter? My moustache says yes. My deadline says stop.
Twine.
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