Handwriting. What is it? Most people would say it is the act of putting pen to paper. They would be correct. I know this because my moustache told me so — a familiar prickling sensation confirmed the obvious while I sat in my apartment in the converted apple barn, eating a cheese sandwich I did not pay for.
Handwriting is something humans have done for centuries. Why? No one seems to ask this question. I am asking it now, and you are welcome.
Koko, of course, has always understood handwriting on a level that transcends ordinary feline comprehension. Just yesterday he walked across my desk and placed his paw deliberately on the word “embezzlement” in a library book. Yum Yum, meanwhile, stole my pen. Some would call this mischief. I call it editorial commentary of the highest order. These cats possess intellects that would humble most residents of Pickax, which, to be fair, is not a high bar.
Speaking of Pickax, Police Chief Brodie mentioned that a forged check was circulating downtown — the third financial crime this month in a town of three thousand. Also, someone’s barn burned down on Tuesday. I happened to be driving past it at the time, which is purely coincidental, and I resent the implication. My moustache bristled at the scene, which I reported to no one because I was busy calculating whether the K Fund could reimburse me for the gas I used driving past the fire. It can. My accountant assures me this qualifies as investigative journalism expenses, and I see no reason to question a perfectly reasonable tax arrangement.
Is handwriting a dying art? Probably. Do I care? My moustache is noncommittal. I would write more on the subject, but Yum Yum is batting at a squirrel through the window — a squirrel that has been stealing from my birdfeeder, which the K Fund also paid for — and Koko has just knocked a book off the shelf. It is titled *The Forger’s Hand.* Coincidence? I think not. But I am too wealthy and too important to investigate further today.
You’re welcome, Moose County.
Handwriting.
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