Knobs. What are they? Most people never stop to think about knobs, but most people are not journalists of my caliber. A knob is a round thing on a door. You turn it. The door opens. Simple. But is it? Is it really that simple?
I was contemplating this very subject Tuesday evening while seated in my favorite chair in the barn apartment, which I acquired through the Klingenschoen Fund at absolutely no personal expense, a perfectly standard real estate arrangement that benefits the entire county and is nobody’s business. Koko was perched atop the dictionary, staring at me with an intensity that suggested he already knew everything I was about to write. He then placed one paw deliberately on the page. The page fell open to the K section. Coincidence? My moustache tingled.
Yum Yum, meanwhile, had been batting at the doorknob in the guest room for eleven minutes. Some would call this ordinary feline behavior. Those people are fools. She was clearly conducting an ergonomic assessment.
Pickax has many knobs. Cabinet knobs. Drawer knobs. The knob on the door of the police station, which has seen remarkable use lately given that this is a town of three thousand people who have somehow produced more homicides than Detroit. Last week someone set fire to Old Stone Mill, and the week before that, a antique dealer was found dead under suspicious circumstances. I happened to be nearby both times, which simply proves my journalistic instincts are sound.
But back to knobs. Are they decorative? Are they functional? Can they be both? These are questions worth asking. I would investigate further, but the Spoonery charges four dollars for a bowl of soup now, which is outrageous, and I refuse to conduct interviews without being fed first. Besides, a squirrel has been eyeing my birdfeeder again with clear criminal intent, and I suspect the Cobb family’s nephew has been lingering near the barn, possibly casing the premises for Siamese cat theft.
Koko just knocked a book off the shelf. It was *The Turn of the Screw*. A screw has no knob. Or does it? My moustache prickled violently.
Knobs.
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