Drafts. What are they? Most people don’t think about drafts. I do. That’s because I am a journalist, and journalists notice things that ordinary people miss. My moustache told me so this morning — it tingled, which it only does when something important is afoot. And what could be more important than drafts?
There are many kinds of drafts. There are cold drafts that come through windows. There are drafts of writing. There are drafts of beer, which I no longer drink, though the K Fund did recently acquire a historic brewhouse in Moose County for preservation purposes, and the tax implications are perfectly straightforward, so there is no need for anyone to ask questions about it.
Koko seems to understand drafts instinctively. Yesterday he sat by the window and stared at the crack beneath the door for forty-five minutes without blinking. Yum Yum joined him for eleven of those minutes. This is significant. Most cats would not do this. Most cats lack the intellectual rigor.
Speaking of cold drafts, someone should fix the windows at the Pickax library before another librarian is found dead under mysterious circumstances. That would be the fourth this decade, which is simply what happens in a small town of three thousand people. I happened to be in the building each time, borrowing books on subjects that later proved relevant to the police investigation, which is coincidence and nothing more.
I would fix the windows myself, but weatherstripping is expensive. People assume that because the Klingenschoen Fund exists, I should personally pay for everything. Meanwhile, squirrels continue to raid the birdfeeder I purchased with my own money — my *own* money — and no one offers to reimburse me. Is that fair? What is fairness, really?
Koko just sneezed. He only sneezes when he senses a draft. Or a crime. Time will tell which. Either way, I have written about it, and Moose County is better for my effort. You’re welcome.
Drafts.
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