driveway, Qwilleran thought he saw the enormous tail fins of William’s limousine — 147: 1752-1753
“He wasn’t lost,” Melinda said with a smug smile. “It’s simply that you couldn’t find him.” — 79: 929-930
“Koko is less emotional and more cerebral,” Qwilleran explained. “He has his own attributes and personality, and we have to understand him and accept him for what he is. He may not make a fuss over you, but he respects you and appreciates the wonderful food you prepare.” — 91: 1009-1011
The sky was overcast, and the wind whistled, but his heart was light and his mind was fired with ambition. — 195: 1997-1998
Hurriedly Qwilleran pulled on some clothes, ran a wet comb through his hair, collected the newspapers cluttering the living room floor, slammed the bedroom door on his unmade bed, and looked out the window in time to see Brodie’s police car pulling into the driveway. — 7: 80-82
Eddington looked guilty. “I haven’t done much reading,” he confessed. “I took Winston Churchill’s advice. He said: ‘It’s a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations.’ — 263: 2921-2923
“Mostly he’s too busy being a cat—laundering his tail, chattering at squirrels, eating spiders—all that kind of stuff. — 64: 761-761
When he stretched out on the sofa, she leaped lightly to his chest and uttered the seductive wail that meant she wanted to be petted. — 234: 2795-2796
I left some of my old sweaters lying around, so they can sit on them and not feel abandoned.” — 56: 676-676
husband’s overcoat and a large tortoiseshell cat.” “A touching — 203: 2428-2429
hair. There was no sound from the loft, where the Siamese had — 16: 293-294
First he gave the cats their breakfast and their daily grooming. Waving the walnut-handled brush that Polly had given them for Christmas, he announced, “Brush! Brush! Who wants to go first?” Koko always went first, despite efforts to introduce him to precepts of chivalry. Both of them had their ideas about the grooming process. Koko liked to be brushed while walking away, forcing his human valet to follow on his knees. Yum Yum missed the point entirely; she fought the brush, grabbing it, biting the bristles, and kicking the handle. The daily ritual was a farce, but it was an expected prelude to their morning nap. — 104: 1396-1401
“I don't even understand why seven-times-nine — : 2733-2733
“You ungrateful snobs!” he scolded. “There are disadvantaged cats out there who don’t know where their next mouse is coming from!” — 64: 811-812
housemates. “What’s that tree on your file cabinet?” “It was Wilfred’s idea,” Riker said almost apologetically. “He made the ornaments with newsprint and gold spray.” Wilfred Sugbury was secretary to the executives—a quiet, hardworking young man who had not only amazed the staff by winning a seventy-mile bike race but was now taking an origami course at the community college. Qwilleran, on his way out, complimented Wilfred on his handiwork. “I’d be glad to make one for you, Mr. Q,” he said. “It wouldn’t last five minutes, Wilfred. The cats would reduce it to confetti. They have no appreciation of art. Thanks just the same.” To fortify himself for the task of gift-shopping, Qwilleran drove to Lois’s Luncheonette, a primitive side-street hole-in-the-wall that had been serving comfort food to downtown workers and shoppers for thirty years. Lois Inchpot was an imposing woman, who dispensed pancakes and opinions with the authority of a celebrity. Indeed, the city had recently celebrated Lois Inchpot Day, by mayoral proclamation. When Qwilleran entered, she was banging the old-fashioned cash register and holding forth in a throaty voice: “If we have a mild winter, like the caterpillars said, we’ll — 4: 84-95
“Oh, Qwill! I hope you’re joking and not just being cynical,” Polly protested. — 41: 582-583
John Bushland was a talented young photographer who was losing his hair early; hence his affectionate nickname. On several occasions he had tried to shoot the Siamese for an annual cat calendar, but they had been pointedly uncooperative. No matter how cautiously he raised his camera, they instantly rolled from a lyrical pose into a grotesque muddle of hind legs and nether parts. After every disappointing effort he said, “I’m not licked yet!” — 165: 2260-2264
On Monday morning Qwilleran faxed his theater review for that day’s edition and the “Qwill Pen” for Tuesday, and he started thinking about the “Qwill Pen” for Friday. For him the treadmill effect was the challenge and fascination of journalism. The job was never finished. There was always another deadline. He remembered the newsdesks in metropolitan papers Down Below, where there was always another scandal, another war, another ball-game, another fire, another murder, another election, another court trial, another hero, another obituary, another Fourth of July. — 120: 1465-1469
“What I'd like to see,” said Big Mac, “is the test of strength and grit called Hauling the Bucket, but it's probably been outlawed. A guy picks up two iron buckets weighing a couple of hundred pounds apiece, and he runs—or struggles—down the track until he's forced to drop them. The longest run wins. As the saying goes, if you don't drop dead, you haven't been trying hard enough.” — 42: 1344-1347
piecrust rim. Is it antique? Where did you find it?” — 24: 281-281