Jackson

His name is Jackson, and he’s a cat – a black cat, to be exact. I named him after that guy on the cable show “My Cat From Hell.” There was no particular reason to name a black cat Jackson, but I like Jackson Galaxy, and I couldn’t think of a better tribute than to name a cat after him.

I first met Jackson the cat during a thunderstorm on Halloween night two years ago. I was sitting in my favorite comfortable armchair, reading Stephen King’s “It” because it was Halloween, a fine time to read a good horror story during a thunderstorm. Between claps of thunder, I heard squeaky meows coming from my back door. I put the book down, got up, opened the door, and saw a black cat sitting on my porch, shivering and crying. He had a piece of string around his neck as if someone had been trying to hang or strangle him, but he had escaped. I picked up the kitty and brought him inside. I dried him off with a towel and removed the string from his neck.

I put some cat-sized baked chicken pieces in a small bowl and some fresh water in another bowl and put them on the floor. In the meantime, the kitty began to explore the apartment. When I put the food and water on the floor, he attacked the chicken and ate all of it, then took a drink from the other bowl. After he ate and drank, he walked around the apartment with his tail swishing from side to side, nudging things, rubbing against other things, and jumping on chairs. Eventually, he settled on my comfortable armchair, where he curled up and went to sleep.

He never left.

I intended to find him a nice, loving home with whoever would take him in and care for him, but that never happened. My first mistake was giving him a name. My second was taking him to the veterinarian for a checkup, his shots, and an appointment to get him neutered. From then on, even an army couldn’t separate me from that cat. He was mine. To seal the deal, even more, I had him microchipped.

Jackson didn’t take kindly to being shut up in the house all the time, so our immediate Bronx neighborhood soon became his “territory.” Neighbors on all sides got to know him. Those who were not superstitious about black cats would call him, pet him, and play with him. Those who were superstitious were kind enough to leave him alone.

As usual, things went on that way until the next Halloween, when Jackson failed to show up at home in the evening, as he always did. I stood in my front doorway and called him, with no result. I locked my door and ran around the neighborhood, calling him, but no black kitty came.

“Jackson! Where are you?” I shouted.

Two of my neighbors came out and asked what the matter was. By this time, I was crying.

“Jackson didn’t come home!” I sobbed. “I don’t know where he is!”

The two neighbors proceeded to walk around and help look for him. In the meantime, other neighbors heard the noise we were making and came out and joined the hunt. A few trick-or-treaters also joined us. Within a half-hour, most of the neighbors were looking for my missing kitty. Unfortunately, nobody found him.

I had horrible images in my mind of what I had heard sadistic people sometimes did to black cats, especially around Halloween time. I should never have allowed him outside, I thought. I should have turned him into an indoor cat, whether he wanted it or not. Poor Jackson! I could barely see through the tears running down my face as I ran around the neighborhood, calling his name.

Eventually, we all had to give up and go home. Going home without Jackson was strange; the house was empty without him. I couldn’t sleep all night, worrying about what might be happening to him, hoping he was still alive and would soon come home.

The next day, right after breakfast and my second cup of coffee, I went to the computer and made up a lost cat flyer with Jackson’s picture, his name, the offer of a $100 reward, and my phone number. I printed 20 copies, dressed, and went around the neighborhood, pinning the notice to trees and telephone poles. I went home and called the ASPCA to report Jackson missing; nobody had turned him in there. I called Animal Control, with the same result. Jackson had disappeared into the universe, and I couldn’t find him.

I followed some advice I had read on Facebook and put his litter box outside, along with a couple of pieces of my clothing and some of Jackson’s favorite food. This was supposed to help him find his way home if lost. A week passed with no word about him, no siting, and no kitty returning home.

It was a terrible week of waiting, hoping, and frustration. Finally, my phone rang, and a male voice on the other end said some welcome words.

“I think I know where your cat is,” he said.

I jumped up from the chair where I was sitting.

“You do? Where?” I said.

“My little girl has him. She picked him up on the sidewalk during Halloween night and has him right now.”

“Where are you? Where do you live? I’ll come and get him right now!” I said.

The man gave me his address on the next block, two streets south of me.

“Don’t go away!” I said. “I’ll be there as fast as I can!”

“Uh … you did post something about a reward, right?”

“Yes. $100.”

“Okay. You give me the $100, and I’ll give you the cat.”

I wanted to say that he didn’t deserve a reward because his daughter was the one who stole Jackson in the first place, but I was in no mood for an argument.

“Sure. Of course. You’ll get the reward.”

If I could have flown to that man’s house, I would have done so. As it was, I ran most of the way. When I got there, panting and out of breath, I must have rung his bell five times, at least. He answered the door right away.

“Hello,” I gasped between caught breaths. “I believe you have my cat.”

“Yes. Come in. You have the $100?”

I reached into my purse and took out the money. “Yes,” I said and handed it to him. I wondered how I would get the money back if the cat turned out not to be Jackson, but my brain wasn’t functioning well at the moment.

I went inside and sat on his couch while he went to fetch his daughter and, hopefully, Jackson. After a few moments, a little red-headed girl came into the living room carrying a black cat.

Jackson spotted me, gave a loud meow, jumped out of the little girl’s arms, walked over to me, nudged me with his nose, and rubbed himself against my leg. I cried as I picked him up, and he nudged my face and gave it a couple of licks with his rough tongue.

“Oh, Jackson! I found you! Thank God! I thought I’d never see you again! Oh my!”

The little girl began to cry.

“I have to give him up, but I don’t want to,” she said. “I want to keep him. Can I keep him, Daddy? I didn’t know he belonged to someone, and I thought he was a stray, so I took him.”

“No, Sweetie,” said the man. “He belongs to this lady here, and she has to take him home now.”

“I’ll tell you what,” I said to the little girl. “I’ll take him home, and you can come and visit him any time you want. How’s that?”

The little girl stopped crying and gave a little smile through the tears that were still going down her face. “Okay,” she said.

I gave the man my address, took Jackson, and left their house.

Since then, life has gone on as usual. Jackson went back to being everybody’s friend in the neighborhood. The little girl, Laurie, comes to visit him often, and the two of us have become like sisters.

I’m not taking any chances, however. When Halloween comes around, Jackson is staying inside!