The campaign for mayor of the village had been dominated from the start by a single subject, parking, on which the two candidates held opposing and equally immovable views. They discussed it at breakfast, they discussed it in the square, and they discussed it, according to rumor, in their sleep. The villagers, who were obliged to listen, grew weary in a way that no amount of coffee could cure. It was in this atmosphere that a group of bored teenagers printed a batch of posters bearing the portrait of Mr. Whiskers, the baker's vast orange cat, and pinned them to every available wall. "Vote for Whiskers," they announced. "He has no opinion about parking."
It was intended as a joke, and perhaps that is why it worked. On election day the villagers, exhausted by the shouting, filed into the polling station, glanced at the two earnest gentlemen on the list and, with a collective shrug, wrote down the cat's name. He won by 212 votes. The council convened a solemn ceremony, at which the new mayor was presented with a tiny ceremonial sash. He received it by yawning.
His administration was marked by a refreshing decisiveness, achieved entirely by sleeping on whichever document lay nearest. Council meetings moved to the bakery, where the air was warm and the bread was free, and ended punctually at five so that nobody missed dinner. A fish stall appeared in the square. And as for the quarrels, they dwindled and died, for it has never been recorded that anyone stayed angry for long in the presence of a cat who has settled himself on the agenda.