There is a cat in my shoe
I am in front of the computer, faced with an early deadline for the next edition of the Press because of Labor Day.
I usually have a vigorous Wednesday lunch conversation with the folks sitting at the round table at the Hilltop and then I have a day or two to mull over the week’s topics.
Today, Monday, I had lunch with the Wall Street Journal and I sure did not get much inspiration for this week’s article about local events.
The weather is always a good topic to touch upon, as most of us humans probably discuss it three to six times a day with various confidants or passersby.
The first notice of the weather is usually with your housemate and/or your faithful companion – human, feline, or canine.
If the day promises only somewhat generic exterior conditions, these pioneers of my day usually get out the door at a slow pace that needs some nudging.
In the case of the canine, however, if there is some animal of interest outside, he acts as if he would leap through flames or break a picture window to get out there.
In my teen years in Connecticut, we were hustled in the mornings by a medium-sized, 100 percent black cat.
He was first seen catching jumping grasshoppers near our clothes line and he probably had not had much else to eat for some time.
My mom suggested we should put butter on his paws because she thought that after the paws were licked, he would hang around our home and solve any rat, rabbit or raptor problem.
The cat was named after the mayor of Bridgeport and was soon known as Jasper McLevy.
It turned out to be a prescient name, as the mayor was the longest serving mayor in Bridgeport history and our Jasper McLevy lived a long time.
The cat joined us for dinner in our casual dining area.
This consisted of a long, two foot wide plank trestle table in front of a built-in bench.
A couple of captain’s chairs were arrayed on the outside.
Mom was inside gesturing wildly, trying to find out where the cat had gotten to. Some short time later, dad must have felt his foot nudged a bit because he looked down under the table and said.
“There’s a cat on my shoe,” he said.
Mom and I explained that we had invited him in for tea time and that we were sure he would perish if we did not continue to feed him. Jasper eventually became my Dad’s cat because he kept him when Sue and I were in Brazil and wouldn’t give him back when we returned.
When Jasper joined us, our household had no other animals.
This was unusual, as many companions had passed through, starting with the legendary German Shepherd Alaric, before my time, the family had lived in Syracuse on Ackerman Avenue and on West Lake Road in Skaneateles from the spring to early fall.
The family, including Alaric, moved to Connecticut in 1928 and eventually bought a house in the country.
It turned out that Alaric did not get on too well with our neighbor Charlie Kelly.
Charlie had some “prize” Bantam Roosters that he showed at local fairs. Needless to say, whenever Alaric had a Banty for dinner there was hell pay.
The family couldn’t understand why Charlie couldn’t keep his roosters confined and he couldn’t understand why we couldn’t keep Alaric tied up.
The next summer, dad gave Alaric to a Baldwinsville resident who worked at the Halcome Steel Company and had a small farm.
About two weeks later, we got a call that Alaric had blown Baldwinsville and had not been seen in two to three days.
A few days after that, we got a call from a driver who had picked Alaric up in Albany and said he looked like he was hitchhiking.
The driver had called the town hall in Watertown, Connecticut and gotten the dog’s owner’s name the clerk who looked up his dog tag number.
Alaric spent most of the rest of his days on a huge long dog run between two large apple trees.
