SO THE UPSHOT OF ALL THIS WAS that Arthur weighed too much? Some of us start out already knowing what others are seeking. Need I say more? Now, after way too long, we seemed to be leaving Magical Miranda’s stall. I had no problem with Magical Miranda herself, whose eyes were not unbeautiful—for human eyes, of course. But wasn’t I at the fair to win the beauty contest? Couldn’t we get that over with and go home?

Our little party—me, Harmony, Bro, Arthur, and Maxie—headed down the alley that divided the two rows of stalls, me in my backpack, everyone else walking. At the end of the alley stood two big white tents, one with farm animals inside, the smell too obvious to even mention, and the other with a flag at the top of the tent pole. A flag with the face of a cat on it! Not a bad idea, not bad at all. Around then was when Maxie said, “Catch you later, my good buddies,” and darted off to the side.

“Seventy-seven and three-quarters,” Harmony said, speaking in the quiet voice she uses for talking to herself, but Bro heard her and laughed. Meanwhile I kept my eyes on Maxie, now some distance away. He seemed to be stuffing some rocks in his pockets. That seemed odd to me.

Then, beyond Maxie, at the fence that marked the boundary of the fairgrounds, I saw another odd thing, maybe even odder. A trailer stood by the fence and two clowns were on their way inside, a red-nosed clown first, followed by a green-nosed clown. The green-nosed clown held a large wrench behind his back—I’ve spent a lot of time watching Elrod try to fix things, so I know a lot of tool names. Were the two clowns planning on fixing something?

Inside the tent, we had metal stands—like at the ball field in town—for the audience, still streaming in, a snack bar over in one corner, and a half circle of stools out in the middle of the straw-covered floor. Near the stools stood some people, most of them holding cats, although one was in a mesh backpack like mine, hers actually worn on the back. This particular cat—somewhat whitish, a whitishness not at all comparable to my own snowy whiteness, scarcely needs mentioning—gave me a look. I gave her a look back, let her feel the effect of my golden gaze. Her own gaze was somewhat golden as well, but a dull, unglittering golden that had no effect whatsoever, certainly not on me and therefore also not on any competent judge.

A woman stepped forward, microphone in hand. I knew this woman: She’d sold us our tickets when we came into the fair—the gum-chewing woman, although if she had gum in her mouth now she wasn’t chewing it. I noticed her eyes—big and dark, kind of like Magical Miranda’s.

The woman tapped the microphone, making a sound I didn’t appreciate one little bit. “Welcome, everybody—two-footed or four!—to the first ever All-County Feline Beauty Contest, which I hope will be a big attraction at the fair for years to come. My name’s Randa Bea Pruitt, and I’m the director of Sunshine Amusements, the company that runs the midway at this county fair and others in the Green Mountain State and all over the country. I know one thing for sure—every cat here is a winner! Have you ever seen so much feline beauty in one place? Give all of our contestants a big hand!”

Applause from the humans, plus some hollering and whistling, all of which hurt my ears. Meanwhile my new frenemy in the adjoining backpack was eyeing me in her annoying way again. I yawned. Yawning can be a nice weapon; take a little tip from me.

“Now,” said Randa Bea, “I’ll explain how this is going to work. First, we’re delighted to have as our judge today Ms. Pamela Vance, editor of Green Mountain Cat magazine. After the crowd is settled, I’ll introduce Pamela and …”

Randa Bea went on and on like that, causing me to tune out. When I tuned back in, there’d been some big changes. First, the stands were now packed with people. Second, I was sitting on one of the stools, Harmony standing beside me. Each of the other cats was also on a stool, also with a single human beside them. My frenemy sat on the stool next to mine. Which allowed me to see her tail for the first time, a tail lacking a gold tuft at the end. The end of my own tail is golden-tufted, a striking grace note to the whole package, in my opinion.

Beside this soon-to-be loser stood her human, an old white-haired lady, perhaps on the shy side, sort of hanging back like she wasn’t comfortable standing up before a crowd of her own kind. She looked my way, gave me a little smile, then leaned down and whispered in my frenemy’s ear. I hear whispers very clearly, and at quite a long distance, just so you know. What the nice old lady whispered was, “Oh, dear. But there’s nothing wrong with second place.”

Nothing wrong with second place? I couldn’t believe my ears. Of course I had to believe them: My ears never miss a thing. Human ears are a different manner. So often you hear humans saying, “Come again?” or “Can you turn that up a tich?” Sometimes they even cup a hand behind an ear to make it stick out more—not a good look on anybody—and say, “Eh?” You have to feel sorry for humans, although I try not to spend much time on that sort of thing.

“… and then,” Randa Bea was saying, “the winner and the runner-up will have their pictures taken for the next issue of Green Mountain Cat magazine, over at the media space behind the curtain by the snack bar. Pictures taken, by the way, by our outstanding photographer, Cuthbert the Clown. Cuthbert—take a bow!”

Over by the snack bar, the black curtain slid open and the clown stepped out, a green-nosed clown with an enormous camera around his neck. A spotlight shone down, making his white face extra white and his green nose extra green. He leaned forward to bow, but the weight of the camera, pretty much the size of a suitcase, seemed to pull him down. He staggered, almost fell, twisted around, and fell behind the curtain, out of sight. Lots of laughter from the crowd. Was something funny? Perhaps I’d missed it.

“Ha-ha, ha-ha. And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” said Randa Bea, “please welcome the judge of today’s contest, Ms. Pamela Vance!”

A spotlight shone down from above, and into its bright circle stepped … stepped a woman who seemed familiar. She had short blond hair, the color of the moon, and wore heavy deep-red lipstick that I almost expected would be black, and also those cat’s-eye glasses. I’d seen her by night, when she’d parked outside the inn and delivered a small package to Mr. Ware. A rather busy night that had included me locking Mr. Ware out of the inn, and an owl rudely interrupting a fun game a little mousy pal of mine and I were having. Am I a creature of action or of quiet contemplation? Quiet contemplation, certainly, but in action I’m … really something else. I’d say the same thing about myself even if I wasn’t me, if you see what I mean.

Pamela Vance came into our little circle, took the mic from Randa Bea. She smiled a big smile. Her teeth were small, very white and even, and somehow sharp-looking.

“Hello, cat lovers!” she said. “I assume we’ve got nothing but cat lovers here.”

Cries of “Yeah!” and “Yay cats!” came from the crowd. I decided that there was something to be said for this event, aside from the fact that I would soon be triumphant. Then in the front row of the stands I happened to notice Arthur sitting at Bro’s feet. His tongue was hanging way way out, for no purpose I could think of, but one thing for sure: He didn’t look like a cat fan. Was it unreasonable for me to expect more support from my … what would you call them? Followers? Yes, followers. That would do nicely.

“As editor, publisher, and owner of Green Mountain Cat magazine—and all our contestants will be receiving a year’s free subscription, courtesy of the good folks at the magazine, meaning me …” She paused, gazing at the crowd as though expecting some reaction, and when there was none, her eyes darkened for a second or two, and she said, “Humor, people, humor.”

Randa Bea laughed, an overloud laugh and somewhat nervous at the same time. Pamela Vance shot her an unfriendly glance and went on. “The point is I’m a cat lover, too! And, if I may say so, an expert on cat beauty. Remember this: Beauty is truth!”

Pamela Vance began explaining how the contest would work. Or maybe not. I wasn’t really listening. Instead I was thinking: Beauty is truth. Did that mean I, Queenie, was truth? Well, why not?

I fell into a pleasant mood, but it got less pleasant as the actual contest began. Not that there was any possibility of me losing. It had to do with the actions of Pamela Vance. She seemed to be going from stool to stool, gazing at the cats, giving them a pat or two—no problem so far, but what was this? Shifting an ear and peering behind it? Prodding here and prodding there? Lifting the whole being off the stool and … and hefting it? Shifting? Prodding? Hefting?

Me?

Pamela Vance came to the stool of my frenemy. “And what’s the name of this lovely creature?” she said.

The old white-haired lady leaned into the mic. “Princess.”

Well, what more was there to be said? Queenie vs. Princess. There’s only one queen but you can have a whole slew of princesses. I began thinking about how to react when I was declared the winner, decided right away to do absolutely nothing.

Pamela Vance murmured, “Perfect.”

Perfect? Did that murmur refer to Princess? I had a troubling thought. What if some judges were better than others? Big Fred, for example, was way handier at fixing things than Elrod, even though Elrod was the official handyman. Could it be that Pamela Vance was the Elrod of judging? Was it possible that life was unfair?

Meanwhile Pamela Vance was shifting one of Princess’s rather too-pointy ears, and prodding her chest, and finally lifting her right off the stool. And all the while, what did Princess do? She purred like she was having the time of her life! For one moment I even thought Princess was about to lick Pamela Vance’s face in an affectionate—even doglike!—manner. Did she actually have a dopey doglike look in her eyes? Oh, brother.

Pamela Vance stroked Princess’s back, at the same time striking up a conversation with the old lady, whose name turned out to be Edna Fricker.

“Tell us, Ms. Fricker—”

“Edna, please.”

“Tell us, Edna, a little bit about Princess here. For example, what’s her favorite activity?”

Edna thought for a moment or two. “She likes to watch me knit.”

Good grief. What could be more boring? I caught a strange look in Pamela Vance’s eyes. For a moment, I thought she was going to laugh out loud, but she did not. Instead she said, “Thank you, Edna,” set Princess back down on the stool, and came to me.

“And now we come to our last contestant, whose name is …” She held out the mic toward Harmony.

“Her name is Queenie,” Harmony said.

“And yours?”

“Harmony,” said Harmony. “Harmony Reddy.”

“Well well,” Pamela Vance said, “almost a found poem.”

I’d heard that before about Harmony’s name, hadn’t understood it then, and didn’t understand it now. From the looks on their faces, the crowd wasn’t getting it, either.

Pamela Vance extended her hand, possibly to check behind one of my ears. Then, suddenly, she stopped. I wondered why. At the same time, I was aware that the fur on my back had risen straight up. And there was my answer. She’d seen the beauty of my fur and had no need for any more investigation, no prodding, no hefting. Was it possible I’d also hissed into the mic? Surely not. All those raised eyebrows in the crowd must have been about something else.

Pamela Vance turned to Harmony. “And what’s Queenie’s favorite activity?”

Harmony looked at me, in fact gazed at me for what seemed like a long time.

Did that seem to annoy Pamela Vance? Frown lines appeared on her forehead. “Surely there’s something Queenie likes to do,” she said.

Harmony nodded. “The thing is, she has two favorite activities. One is daydreaming.”

Pamela Vance’s frown lines deepened. “Daydreaming?”

“She loves to lie in a patch of sun and just let her mind wander.”

“How … interesting,” said Pamela Vance. “And her other favorite activity—if we can call daydreaming an activity—is … ?”

“Hunting,” said Harmony.

“By hunting, you mean she accompanies your father on hunting expeditions?”

Dad was in the picture? Dad hadn’t been around in some time. It all went back to Mom hiring a decorator to spiff up the inn, the decorator’s name being Lilah Fairbanks. Almost from the start, she and Dad had glanced at each other in ways that caught my attention, although no one else’s, as things turned out. Skipping to the end of their little story, I didn’t miss Dad, not one little bit.

“No,” said Harmony. “Queenie hunts by herself. Indoors she goes after mice.”

“And outdoors?”

“Birds.”

“Does she actually … catch any?”

“Oh, yes. Just small ones—cardinals, robins, finches, that sort of thing. We try to stop her, but she’s pretty sneaky and …” Harmony came to a sudden stop, an uh-oh look quickly crossing her face.

All at once it was strangely silent in the tent. Birds are not so easy to catch. I’m sure the audience was aware of that, and thus suitably impressed. Once I’d actually climbed onto an amazingly high branch and taken a rather large bird, possibly a white dove, completely by surprise. You should have seen the look in its … but perhaps a story for later.

Pamela Vance stepped back, giving me a look that seemed quite careful. “Well,” she said. “Well well.” She squared her shoulders and said, “And now I’ll take one last circuit around, and then decide—and what a hard choice!—on our winner and runner-up.” She walked around the stools, eyeing each of my … comrades? Would that be it? I had a warm feeling for all of them, and if not warm, then at least not icy cold. They were getting to hang out with a champion, so this was a lucky day in their lives, even if not quite in the way they were hoping.

Now Pamela Vance was close by, gazing at Princess. At the same time, Edna was gazing at Pamela Vance, her eyes saying, Please please please. I came close to feeling bad for her.

Pamela Vance stepped in front of me and gave me a long look, a look that almost seemed unfriendly, but that was impossible so I ignored it. In fact, I ignored her completely. She sighed, shook her head, and then raised the mic.

“What a difficult decision! I wish there could be two winners. But since there can’t, I now announce that the runner-up in the first annual All-County Feline Beauty Contest is … the adorable Princess! And therefore our winner … is Queenie.”

I would have welcomed a little more excitement in the tone of her voice, but as I heard Mr. Salming say once after a hockey game, “a win is a win.” As for the crowd? All the cheering and clapping anyone could ask for! Did I hear a lone cry, or possibly not quite lone, of “Princess”? Maybe, maybe not, but if so I’m sure it was drowned out by shouts of “QUEENIE! QUEENIE! QUEENIE!”