The campaign for mayor had been dominated from the outset 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 quantity of coffee could cure, and it was in this atmosphere of civic fatigue that a group of bored teenagers printed a batch of posters bearing the portrait of Mr. Whiskers, the baker's vast and unhurried orange cat, and pinned them to every available wall. "Vote for Whiskers," they announced. "He has no opinion about parking."
It was meant as a joke, and perhaps that is precisely 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 of the soul, wrote down the cat's name. He won by 212 votes. The council convened a ceremony of the utmost solemnity, at which the new mayor was presented with a tiny ceremonial sash. He received it by yawning, in a manner many an older statesman might envy.
His administration was distinguished 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 remained angry for long in the presence of a cat who has settled himself comfortably on the agenda.