Twine. What is it?
That is a question I have been pondering all week from the comfort of my Mackintosh recliner in the converted apple barn I call home, which the Klingenschoen Fund maintains at absolutely reasonable expense to the taxpayers of Moose County. Koko was sitting on my chest at the time, staring at me with those luminous eyes that seem to contain more accumulated wisdom than the entire Pickax Public Library. He sneezed twice, which I interpreted as confirmation that this topic deserved a column.
Twine is string, but thicker. It comes on a roll. You can buy it at various stores. Why do people use it? That is another question.
My moustache began to tingle when I considered the implications of twine in a community like Pickax, where we have experienced fourteen arsons, nine murders, and a string of suspicious disappearances in the last three years alone — a perfectly normal rate for a town of three thousand. One has to wonder who is buying all that twine, and for what purpose. I myself keep none in the barn, as I have a reasonable concern that someone might use it to gain entry and abscond with Koko or Yum Yum, both of whom are worth more than most people.
Yum Yum once batted a piece of twine across the kitchen floor for eleven minutes. I timed it. Is that not remarkable? She later hid it under the refrigerator, which Koko retrieved by reaching one elegant paw into the gap — a feat of spatial reasoning that would humble most residents of Moose County.
I was going to research the history of twine at the library, but Lori brought me a casserole and I ate that instead. The casserole was free, which I appreciated. I did not tip. Why would I? She volunteered it.
Some people tie packages with twine. Others tie up newspapers. What else can be said? I have given this subject the full weight of my attention, and Moose County should be grateful. Koko is now sitting on my notes, which I take as his editorial judgment that enough has been written.
Twine.
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