Dwight Somers: The timing of the explosion couldn't be worse; it gives 'Explo' a bad connotation. I can't help wondering if there's an element in the county that opposes our celebration of food. Nowadays we have anti-everything factions, but can you imagine anyone being anti-food?
Qwilleran: The cranks are always with us, hiding behind trees, peeking around corners, going about in disguise, and plotting their selfish little schemes.
—The Cat Who Said Cheese
Waitress: Gonna have a pasty? Would you like Dijon mustard or horseradish?
Qwilleran: What! Did I hear you correctly?
Waitress: That's what some of the tourists ask for.
Qwilleran: I like pasties to taste like pasties, hot dogs to taste like hot dogs, and lamb chops to taste like lamb chops. I'm a purist. If you put mustard and horseradish and ketchup and chopped onions and pickle relish on everything, it all tastes alike. No thanks!
—The Cat Who Sang for the Birds
A few women had canes by their sides; the last in the circle was in a wheelchair. She was introduced as Rebecca Hawley. "I've made something for you, Mr. Q.," she said in a faltering voice. "I've been working on it since last October." She handed him a roll of linen with a red ribbon tied like a diploma. Concealing his apprehension, he unrolled it slowly, then stared at it in disbelief. The painstakingly embroidered words stared back at him—his own words, stitched in black letters: CATS ARE CATS...THE WORLD OVER! THESE INTELLIGENT, PEACE-LOVING, FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDS—WHO ARE WITHOUT PREJUDICE, WITHOUT HATE, WITHOUT GREED—MAY SOMEDAY TEACH US SOMETHING. - THE QWILL PEN
—The Cat Who Saw Stars
