Ode to Captain Jack

He showed up sometime in the middle of winter - only looking for a little food and maybe some shelter from the storms of February. Jack - short for Michael Jackson (because he was black and white) took up residence in the wood shed. Sure, it offered a roof and some warmth, but the smoke from the stove surely brought tears to his eyes at least twice a day. For him, maybe that was a fair price for sanctuary. Early on we'd catch him peering at us thru the sliding glass door - wondering what it would be like to be on the inside. Being the kind soul that she is, Sharon began providing a bit of food here and there - and a couple of warm towels in which to curl.

Soon we noticed that the indoor cat food bowls were emptier than usual in the mornings - and the nearby dribs cleaned up as well. Jack had figured out the magic of the cat door. To hear Lilly and Harry tell it, Jack was setting the house on fire. Other than their midnight screeches, our only clue was a very tidy cat food area.

Then came spring and Jack was still around. The other two strays (and the possum) that had hung around during the worst of winter had moved on to greener pastures. But not Jack - he had a good thing and knew it. One day a few short weeks ago Jack decided to take a chance - and actually allowed Sharon to pet him. The dam broke. Sharon would go out to her flower garden bench and sing out, and Jack would materialize at her side - rubbing and rolling in the sun and looking for love. We'd go out to the yard to throw a tennis ball for Obie - again Sharon would sing out - and Jack would appear.

Maybe it was the beginning of the end - who knows. One evening last week we were in the living room and heard the tentative opening of the cat door. Our "regular" cats have nothing "tentative" about them when passing thru the kitty portal - so we could tell by the sound that it was a stranger. Sure, we'd heard it before. Usually turning a blind ear to it - allowing Jack a chance to grab a quick snack. But this time was different. Jack strode gingerly into the living room, sat down beside the fireplace and just looked around. He had finally made it into that warm space on the other side of the glass - the place that he had so longed to visit just a few short months ago.

Being the kind and responsible "stray-protector", Sharon decided that it would be best for all involved if Jack had a quick trip to the vet. After all, it would make him more attractive adoption candidate. Jack had other ideas. The original Monday appointment ended up a bust when Jack - who was 100% inside the carrier with the door 99% closed - somehow managed to escape in a flurry of claws and yowls. Neither bits of baked ham nor soothing praise could coax him out of his woodshed sanctuary.

Then came Tuesday. For better or worse, we devised a more solid plan and the next thing he knew, Jack was heading south on US Rt. 15.

Here's where I'd like to describe the happy ending. You know - how the vet proclaimed a clean bill of health and on the way home there was a little girl who had a "lost cat" sign in her drive sporting Jack's photo. But it wasn't to be. Instead, a quick test determined that Jack was suffering from feline AIDS, a contagious and debilitating disease. And remaining a stray in the woodshed was no longer an option.

And now the story of Jack ends - one of the many of God's creatures that have entered our lives - that have brought joy and then sorrow to our hearts. Although his time with us was short, his mark on our lives will be long lived. Captain Jack, rest in peace.

Thirty three years ago today

July 7, 1977 was a Thursday. We were in the middle of a very long week and hot week. That was the week that we moved from downtown Johnsville, USA to a farm outside of Emmitsburg. At the time I remember thinking that Emmitsburg was surely rednecksville if ever there was - and my mother must be crazy for making us do this. The day stands out in my memory because it was the first entry - 7/7/77 - on my passbook savings account - opened that day at Farmers & Mechanics on the square. You remember passbook savings accounts. With each deposit or withdrawal, you took your passbook with it's embossed burgundy cover and protective plastic sleeve into the teller - who would carefully note, initial and stamp the entry. It was important to keep the passbook in a very safe place so that you wouldn't lose your entire fortune.

That week, Hon and I must have taken fifty trips with the pickup truck - over hill and dale - between the two houses. There was a former colleague of Hon lived along the route. With each trip, we'd beep and wave to Andy and were sure the poor guy had no idea who it was making all of that racket. Then, as now, we were easily amused.

So now, some thirty plus years later, Betsey may still be crazy. But if so, I must have inheritied some of the crazies as well as I'm still in Emmitsburg. Of my own volition. Go figure.