Tammy paused in the doorway to Mrs. T’s sitting room and simply stared.

The Willow-Crafters had turned the place into a campaign headquarters.

Poster board covered the dining table. Ribbon curls and snippets of card littered the carpet. A half-finished banner reading PAWS FOR THOUGHT stretched across the sofa cushions, held down at one corner by a sugar bowl and at the other by Beatrice’s reading glasses. Someone had propped a stack of hand-lettered flyers against the teapot. Another set hung from the edge of the sideboard to dry.

And in the middle of it all, Lockie sat on a chair cushion like a furry little candidate awaiting press coverage.

Tammy tightened her hold on the doorframe. “What on earth is going on?”

Betty looked up first, blue ribbon clenched between her teeth. “Campaigning.”

Della Mae, surrounded by bottles of glitter glue and with far more enthusiasm than any woman should legally possess before lunchtime, beamed. “We’ve decided Lockie needs stronger messaging.”

Marjorie didn’t look up from the stack of flyers she was straightening into perfect alignment. “We decided nothing. You decided that at eight-fifteen and descended on Hazel’s house like a one-woman printing press.”

Beatrice held up a strip of card and squinted at it. “Do you think “Whiskers, Wisdom, Willowcroft” sounds statesmanlike or faintly religious?”

“It sounds excellent,” Della Mae said.

“It sounds like a church tea towel,” Marjorie said.

Mrs. T sat in her armchair by the window, entirely composed despite the storm of paper, ribbon, and opinion spinning around her. Her knitting rested in her lap untouched for once, which on its own should have warned Tammy something serious was happening.

“We are helping Lockie connect with the electorate,” Mrs. T said.

Tammy looked at the cat.

Lockie blinked back at her with all the serenity of a creature who believed public office was his natural inheritance.

“Of course you are,” Tammy said.

Betty finally pulled the ribbon from her mouth. “Come in, dear. You’re blocking the light.”

Tammy stepped inside, carefully avoiding a tray of campaign badges that said VOTE LOCKIE in green ink and featured tiny paw prints stamped across the corners.

“How many flyers does one cat need?” she asked.

“As many as it takes,” Della Mae said at once.

“Fewer than this,” Marjorie said.

“You cannot quantify momentum,” Della Mae replied.

“You certainly can. I’ve been trying for twenty minutes.”

Beatrice laid her strip of card beside the others. “I still think the problem is that Lamby has a clearer family-values image.”

Betty gasped as if Beatrice had uttered a treasonous sentence. “Lockie has image.”

“He has presence,” Marjorie corrected. “Image implies cooperation.”

That was fair.

Lockie chose that moment to place one white paw squarely on a stack of finished leaflets and sit down on them.

Della Mae pressed a hand to her chest. “Look at that. Natural authority.”

“He’s sat on my best lettering,” Marjorie said darkly.

Mrs. T adjusted her shawl. “Marjorie, if Lockie sits on the material, the material acquires authenticity.”

Marjorie looked at her. “That is nonsense.”

“Persuasive nonsense,” Mrs. T said.

Tammy drifted closer to the table. There were at least four slogan options in circulation.

PAWS FOR THOUGHT
VOTE LOCKIE. HE ALREADY RUNS THE TOWN.
A CALMER PAW FOR PUBLIC LIFE
LESS BARK, MORE BRAINS

She picked the last one up. “This one’s quite good.”

Betty puffed up with pride. “That one was mine.”

“I wrote the subheading,” Della Mae said. “Read the subheading.”

Tammy did. Independent. Observant. Mildly Judgy.

She laughed before she could stop herself. “That is uncomfortably accurate.”

Beatrice tapped the edge of the table. “What concerns me is turnout.”

“Turnout?” Tammy echoed.

“For the vote,” Beatrice said. “Lamby has the advantage of approachability. He’ll shake paws, tolerate ribbons, and pose for children. Lockie can’t rely on dignity alone. He needs mystery and scarcity.”

Tammy stared at her.

“You’re discussing this like an actual election.”

Mrs. T gave her a patient look. “Dear, in a small town, all elections are actual elections once enough women over sixty care about the outcome.”

That also felt fair.

Della Mae reached for a brush and began painting a tiny gold border around a poster featuring Lockie’s face in profile. “I think we need one dramatic banner for the square. Something with weight.”

“Nothing with glitter,” Marjorie warned.

“A little glitter says confidence.”

“Glitter says loss of standards.”

Betty held up a narrow strip of calico. “What about a ribbon sash for him? ‘Candidate Lockie.’”

Tammy looked at Lockie again. “I don’t think he’ll wear it.”

The women turned to the cat as if this were now a tactical matter.

Mrs. T set down her knitting. “Lockie.”

The cat’s ears twitched.

“Would you tolerate a small sash in the interest of civic duty?”

Lockie rose, stretched luxuriously across Marjorie’s flyers, stepped over a jar of paste, and walked to the edge of the table. Betty gently looped the ribbon strip near him.

He looked at it. He looked at her. Then he stepped directly over it and sat with his back to them all.

Della Mae sighed. “He’s so principled.”

“He’s impossible,” Tammy said.

“Sometimes the two overlap,” Mrs. T replied.

Beatrice gathered up the finished cards and began sorting them into tidy stacks. “We still need a slogan for the kissing booth.”

“Lockie isn’t doing a kissing booth,” Tammy said at once.

Betty looked scandalized. “Why not?”

“Because he’d claw someone.”

“Only if they deserved it.”

Marjorie slid a banner section toward herself and began re-lettering a crooked line. “Let Lamby have the kissing booth. That suits his platform. We should lean into Lockie’s strengths.”

“Which are?” Tammy asked.

The women answered at once.

“Presence,” said Mrs. T.

“Mystique,” said Beatrice.

“Judgment,” said Marjorie.

“Face,” said Della Mae.

Tammy laughed again, helpless this time.

Lockie turned his head at the sound and blinked at her, as if mildly surprised she had taken this long to understand the obvious.

Mrs. T smiled. “You see the difficulty. Lamby is accessible. Lockie is aspirational.”

“That sounds like a line from a marketing seminar,” Tammy said.

“Good marketing is just polished gossip,” Marjorie replied.

Betty leaned toward Tammy and lowered her voice despite every person in the room clearly hearing her anyway. “We’re also thinking of placing Marjorie near the tally board because she looks trustworthy.”

“I am trustworthy.”

“Exactly.”

Della Mae pointed a paintbrush at Beatrice. “And Beatrice will speak to the more serious voters. People who care about civic order and proper procedure.”

Beatrice straightened. “I do have credibility.”

“You have spectacles,” Della Mae said. “It amounts to the same thing in public life.”

Mrs. T glanced at Tammy. “Would Olivia object if we hung one banner in the bookstore window?”

“Olivia would frame it.”

“Excellent.”

Marjorie slid a finished flyer toward the center of the table for approval.

VOTE LOCKIE
PAWS FOR THOUGHT
Calm under pressure. Sharp in a crisis. Mildly disappointed in everyone.

Tammy pressed her lips together and lost the battle anyway. “That is perfect.”

“I told you,” Betty said.

“No,” Marjorie said. “You told us to add exclamation marks. I ignored you for the good of the town.”

Della Mae clapped once. “Right. Roles. Betty, ribbons. Marjorie, final copy. Beatrice, distribution strategy. Hazel, moral leadership. Tammy, candidate management.”

“Candidate management?”

Mrs. T inclined her head toward Lockie.

At that exact moment, the cat stepped onto the edge of the half-finished banner, planted both front paws in the wet paint of the word WILLOWCROFT, and walked straight across the white cloth, leaving a row of green paw prints behind him.

The room fell silent.

Lockie reached the end, sat down, and began washing one paw with complete calm.

Della Mae gave a strangled little cry of delight.

Betty clapped both hands over her mouth.

Beatrice stared. “That is…”

“Campaign genius,” Mrs. T said.

Marjorie closed her eyes for one long second. “I hate that she’s right.”

Tammy looked at the banner. The paw prints were uneven, bright, ridiculous, and somehow exactly right.

Then she looked at Lockie.

“Did you just brand your own campaign material?”

He continued washing his paw.

Mrs. T smiled into the riot of paper and ribbon and old-lady strategy. “He understands optics.”

And, Tammy had to admit, so did the Willow-Crafters.