When I heard that Marmalade the cat was willing to speak, I got myself over to the front porch of the Pine Crest Inn before the rest of the press could get there.

Jimmy Hoffa being found buried beneath that peculiar mound on 18 at Pinehurst No. 2 or Elvis buying jumbo plaid boxers at Gentlemen’s Corner might have been a slightly bigger news item.

But in any case an otherwise slow news day in the Sandhills suddenly got a whole lot more interesting.

I found Marmalade pretty much where you always find Marmalade, sitting on the top right-hand step of the hotel’s entry, placidly watching the world go by.

“So,” I began our conversation, opening my reporter’s pad, “how is it you’ve decided to finally break your silence now, after all these years of saying nothing?”

“Speaking is vastly overrated,” was her reply. “Silence is a golden. If you don’t believe it, just turn on C-SPAN or watch any presidential news conference. The president says the same thing over and over, and the Democrats have no message whatsoever. I much prefer ‘Wheel of Fortune.’”

“So you’re saying Congress and the president are all talk and no action?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth. A wise person once said he who says he knows doesn’t know while she who says she doesn’t know, knows. That’s all I’m saying.”

“You sound like a Buddhist, Marmalade.”

“I’m an orange cat. Nothing more, nothing less. Presbyterian by birth, if you must know.”

“So you do believe in a personal God … ”

“Personally, I believe in sushi. Or at least tuna straight from the can. In ancient Egypt, cats were considered gods, you may have heard. Feel free to pay homage by scratching my ear.”

A Quoter of Cicero

Interviewing a famous hotel cat, I realized, is far tougher than it looks.

Switching tacks, I invited Marmalade to share her views on a range of topical subjects — creeping inflation, Karl Rove, teenage obesity, a record fourth Cat-5 hurricane on the horizon, fears the real estate market may soon go flat. I was also interested to learn where Marmalade came down in the whole intelligent design-evolution debate.

Marmalade yawned.

“Prices go up, prices go down. So do presidential advisers, waistlines and house values. That’s nature’s way. Speaking of nature, it’s actually five major hurricanes, Ace — counting the big bash we had here for the U.S. Open. Some blowout that was. Took me weeks to catch up on my beauty sleep. Cats strike me as an extremely intelligent design, by the way. But you do have to wonder what God was thinking when she thought up telemarketers and dogs. Truly embarrassing how they suck up to strangers. Maybe she just had a migraine that day.”

“So you believe God is a woman?” I scribbled furiously to get this down, thinking I’d found a sensational lead. Marmalade the cat was really an arch-neofeminist feline posing as a placid hotel porch cat.

“Of course God is a woman. Whoever said it’s impossible to know the mind of God knew exactly what he was talking about. Probably some dope who forgot his wedding anniversary until he was heading home in the evening commute.”

Since Marmalade could talk, I wondered if this meant she could read as well. I pictured my scoop going international by noon, Wolf Blitzer in “The Situation Room” by 5.

“If you must know, I just finished off Barzun’s ‘Life of Cicero.’ Some cat he was. ‘The O’Reilly Factor For Cats’ is up next, no spin zone for tabbies. Seems a tad reactionary for my tastes. But, hey, all the cats over at the Country Club are reading it this fall. My cousin Bootsie swears by the guy. I try and mix the ridiculous with the sublime.”

“Are you perhaps a fan of independent cinema or live performance theater?”

“I people-watch from this porch, Sport. The passing parade of fools, as Professor Jacques Barzun liked to say. That’s my kind of mindless entertainment. You wouldn’t believe the silly things you people say and do to each other. Not all of it nice, either.”

“Care to elaborate?” My pen was poised.

“Sorry, pal. I’m no dog. I don’t spill my guts just because you’re willing to scratch a little ear.”

Mystery Lady

Like many who spend long hours partying on the Pine Crest porch, I knew from the hotel’s management that Marmalade is a mystery lady with a lively and colorful past of her own. Since she produced several litters before her plumbing was forcibly removed, some might even call her the Pinehurst Jezebel.

Her exact age is officially unknown, a la Joan Rivers or Nancy Reagan, though she is widely believed to be approaching 80 in cat years. Fueling rumors of a powerful past in the corridors of power, however, a local retired FBI man faithfully comes to the Pine Crest to personally attend to her dietary whims and drive her to and from the vet for shots and regular checkups.

She was recently seen rubbing the shins of Michael Douglas and is regularly stroked by a Who’s Who of the golf, political and business worlds, an elite circle that rivals the regular Friday night strip-poker list at a Clinton Renaissance Weekend.

Marmalade yawned a second time. I sensed I might be losing her interest.

“So how do you remain so ageless and well preserved?”

I hated to stoop to a shallow vanity question to try and draw her out, but Marmalade was less revealing than a White House press secretary these days.

“I recommend 12 hours of sleep per day and exposure to direct sunlight only in limited doses. See that yummy patch of afternoon sunlight over there on the top step? Once we wind up this chinwag I plan to move over there, curl up and have a nice snooze until dinnertime. Never miss the chance at a free scratch or a good nap. That’s my motto for a long and beautiful life. A little Botox in the litter box doesn’t hurt, either.”

I tried one final lofty gambit.

“Is there anything else you’d simply like to say, Marmalade, here in these anxious and worried times, from your perspective on your elevated porch — to the people of the Sandhills, I mean, or for that matter the greater world at large? Perhaps some tidbit of feline wisdom from all your years of watching humanity’s passing parade?”

I reminded Marmalade that she was the first cat in history to agree to a formal sit-down interview with the press. A grande dame pussycat who read Jacques Barzun and Cicero didn’t come along every day. I simply couldn’t end on cat beauty tips.

Final Words of Wisdom

Marmalade got up and sashayed across the porch, stretching out lazily in the patch of afternoon sunlight. She yawned for a third time, blinking sleepily. The resemblance to Scott McClellan taking questions about CIA leaks was simply astonishing.

“OK. I’ll say this only once. Turn off the boob tube and take a long walk with a friend. Quit scaring yourselves to death. Skip the curly fries. Rescue a cat from the pound — dog, too, I guess, if you’re into drool or masochism. Anyway, call your mom on Sunday night and start being civil to each other before you ruin a perfectly lovely world. Cicero said the greatest mistake any man makes is thinking he prevails by crushing others.”

“That’s so profound, Marmalade. May I quote you?”

“No problem. Wanna do me a favor, Hon?”

“Certainly. Anything. You name it.”

I was in giddy transport writing all this down — a hotel cat who quoted Marcus Tullius Cicero on mankind’s dubious conquest of his neighbor! Marmalade had spoken. Then she spoke again.

“Mind moving your pancakes? You’re blocking my sunlight.”