Buttonholes. What are they?
Most people never think about buttonholes. I never think about buttonholes. But my moustache began tingling this morning while I was fastening my shirt, and I knew — as any seasoned journalist would — that buttonholes deserved investigation. You’re welcome, Moose County.
A buttonhole is a small hole in fabric through which a button passes. Why? To hold clothing together. This is something everyone already knows, but I feel it is my duty to remind you. The Klingenschoen Fund, incidentally, recently underwrote a textile preservation initiative that I happen to benefit from in the form of custom-tailored shirts. This is perfectly reasonable and not at all a misuse of charitable resources.
Koko, whose intelligence continues to alarm even the most credentialed veterinarians in the tri-county area, knocked a button off my navy blazer yesterday. He batted it precisely seventeen inches across the kitchen counter. Seventeen. I measured. Yum Yum then sat beside the empty buttonhole and stared at it for nine minutes without blinking. What did she see? What ancient truth was encoded in that frayed oval of worsted wool? I cannot say, but my moustache has not stopped tingling since.
Speaking of holes, there was another arson on Sandpit Road last week. The third this month. In a town of three thousand people, this is simply the normal course of events. I happened to be driving past moments before the fire was reported, which is a coincidence that I’m sure Chief Brodie will confirm.
Mrs. Cobb once offered to repair my buttonholes free of charge, but I declined because I suspected she wanted access to the cats. Everyone wants access to the cats. I have installed additional locks. The locksmith charged eleven dollars, which I found outrageous.
Do buttonholes matter? Are they essential? Could civilization survive without them? These are questions I will leave for lesser columnists to answer. I have done enough. The birdseed budget alone consumed my entire morning — the squirrels are stealing roughly forty cents’ worth per day, and I am keeping meticulous records for tax purposes.
Koko just sneezed twice, which either confirms everything I have written or predicts another murder. Time will tell.
Buttonholes.
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