Whistling. What is it? Most people have done it at some point. Some people do it well. Others do not. I myself have been known to whistle on occasion, though I rarely have cause to, burdened as I am with the responsibilities of maintaining a column that this county depends upon for its cultural sustenance.
The other evening I was sitting in my converted apple barn — a property the Klingenschoen Fund maintains at minimal taxpayer expense through a perfectly standard arrangement — when Koko began making a peculiar sound. It was, I realized after careful journalistic analysis and a confirmatory tingle of my moustache, a whistle. Not a human whistle, mind you, but something far more intentional. Koko does nothing without purpose. He was perched atop a volume of Shakespeare’s complete works, which he had knocked from the shelf himself, opened to *The Tempest*. Coincidence? My moustache said otherwise.
Why do people whistle? Is it for joy? Is it for communication? These are questions worth asking. I will not answer them here, as my readers are intelligent enough to form their own conclusions, and I have a word count to consider.
Yum Yum, meanwhile, had positioned herself at the window, watching a cardinal on the feeder — a feeder I stock at considerable personal expense, only to have squirrels plunder it like the petty criminals who seem to flourish in Pickax at a rate that would alarm any actuary. Speaking of which, there was another small fire on Goodwinter Boulevard last week. The third this month. No one seems to find this remarkable. I happened to be driving past moments before it started, which Chief Brodie noted with what I felt was unnecessary interest.
But back to whistling. Koko whistled three times. Three. The same number as the fires. My moustache practically vibrated off my face. I poured myself a Squunk water — from my own supply, not the K Fund’s, despite what certain auditors have implied — and considered the implications. Koko looked at me with those intelligent eyes and said “YOW,” which I have come to understand means he knows exactly what is happening and is simply waiting for the rest of us to catch up.
Is whistling an art? Is it a science? Does it matter? Probably not. But I have written about it nonetheless, which is more than this county deserves on a Tuesday.
Whistling.
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