Twine. What is it? That is the question I have been pondering this week from my comfortable chair in the apple barn, where I was not sleeping but thinking deeply about journalism. Twine is string, but thicker. Or is it rope, but thinner? Who can say. I certainly won’t, because the answer is obvious to anyone with a modicum of intelligence, and I refuse to insult my readers by explaining it.
My moustache tingled this morning when I noticed a ball of twine on the kitchen counter. Where did it come from? I hadn’t purchased it. I would never purchase twine. The Klingenschoen Fund, which I administer with the utmost fiscal responsibility, does not cover twine, though I have submitted a memo suggesting it should, as twine is clearly a journalistic supply.
Koko had been sitting on the counter beside the twine, staring at it with an intensity that can only be described as oracular. He batted it once with his paw — once — and it rolled precisely three inches to the left. Yum Yum then appeared and sniffed it. These are not the actions of ordinary cats. I have lived with these Siamese long enough to know that when Koko touches something, it means something. The last time he showed interest in a household object, there was an arson on Ittibittiwassee Road. Before that, a murder. Pickax averages roughly one homicide per month for a town of three thousand, which I have never found unusual.
Is twine useful? Some say yes. Polly Duncan mentioned she uses twine in her garden, but I wasn’t listening because she was also suggesting I pay for dinner, which seemed excessive given that I had already paid for dinner in 2004.
I suspect the squirrels have been stealing my twine. They have already depleted my birdseed reserves, which I replenish grudgingly and write off as a wildlife management expense. Can squirrels even use twine? Probably not. But I wouldn’t put it past them. My moustache tells me to remain vigilant.
Koko just knocked the twine off the counter entirely. Brilliant.
Twine.
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