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“A Greatly Blessed Life” is a 2018 column about Mr. Charles Speight of Unadilla, Georgia. He was almost 96 at the time and constantly on the go. When I inquired about the secret to his longevity, he had answered without hesitation. “Not dying,” he said with a smile.

His quick wit and joyful outlook are fully intact as he approaches centenarian status. On April 2^nd he’ll celebrate his 100^th birthday, a milestone especially noteworthy because of his optimistic approach to life. Proverbs 17:22 says, “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.” Mr. Charles is living proof.

In late February I called him about a rumor he’d be throwing the game ball out for the Atlanta Braves on his birthday. He explained that John Offenberg had tossed that idea around town. “I asked John,” he continued, “whether I should work on my curve ball or knuckle ball, but he wants speed.”

“My fast ball is up to 15 miles per hour,” he added, “and staying in the air over 17 feet.” Whether Mr. Charles will get a call from Atlanta I don’t know, but I can’t think of a better way to start a game than having a decorated World War II fighter pilot take the mound.

On a sidenote, I’ve never publicly thanked John Offenberg for a personal favor from several years ago. John called me aside at a Chamber of Commerce meeting in late 2015. “I know you have a lot to take care of before leaving the bank,“ he said. “I thought it might be helpful if I wrote your retirement speech for you.” On a business card he’d scribbled, “Goodbye tension. Hello pension.”

Mr. Charles and I visited in his backyard on March 18^th. Covid protocols have kept him close to home recently. He had returned to church for a while and resumed teaching the A. B. Hosea Sunday School Class, a men’s group he’s taught since Father’s Day in June 1956. When Covid surged again, he took his doctor’s advice about limiting his exposure.

“The hardest part of this pandemic for me,” he said, “is not getting out and seeing people.” Those who know him understand perfectly. Until the coronavirus interfered, he was teaching Sunday School weekly, meeting with The Coffee Club Monday through Friday, participating in Lion’s Club and Chamber of Commerce activities, and visiting friends who could no longer drive.

Driving is on a temporary hold due to a fractured bone in his leg. “I didn’t fall,” he politely corrected me. “I just tripped over the hearth.” He wasn’t going to mention the mishap to his family, but his daughter, Patti, and oldest son, Charlie, were checking on him as usual and stayed until bedtime. He reluctantly confessed he might need help getting out of his chair.  

One medical option was to slowly recuperate by severely limiting his movements. The other was to repair the fracture with three screws, which would let him to do whatever the pain allowed. It’s not surprising he chose surgery. He’s walking for exercise, watching old westerns on his iPad, reading The Atlanta Journal and Macon Telegraph, and calling friends regularly.

With typical modesty, he declined to offer any advice for young folks. “I don’t need to be giving advice,” he said with a grin. “I need y’all to give me some.” I trust he knows how much his wisdom is valued by others, and how inspirational his godly example is for young, old, and those in between.

I asked how he remains so optimistic. “I love people and the Lord has blessed me,” he answered. “Teaching Sunday School has been one of the greatest blessings I’ve experienced. I wasn’t prepared to teach those men when they elected me, but it caused me to study my Bible more. And that’s helped me have a better understanding of how I should live.”

He’s taught Sunday School longer than anyone I know, sold tons of onions for the Lion’s Club, and been a community leader for decades. Now he’s anxious to get back in circulation. “I’m keeping up with how many hugs I’m due from the ladies,” he said, noting the pandemic has taken a severe toll on hugs, handshakes, and visits.

“What do you want for your birthday?” I asked, figuring he wouldn’t say more shirts or ties. “Just good friends and good health,” he quickly replied. “I don’t need anything else.”

As we shook hands to say goodbye, I had a better perspective of Solomon’s proverb. A merry heart, I realized, affects far more than one person. I understood that better, because Mr. Charles had shared a generous dose of his merry-heart medicine with me. Happy birthday and God bless. Play ball!            
                        

It seems like only yesterday I walked into Freeman’s Pharmacy in Unadilla with my father, unaware my short pants were on backward. I wasn’t a fan of shorts during childhood. The farmers of Third District dressed in khakis or blue jeans, with an occasional old timer clad in overalls. I figured short britches were for little kids, not someone closing in on his fifth birthday.

None of my favorite television cowboys wore short pants either. Not Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, The Lone Ranger, or The Cisco Kid. And certainly not Zorro, who would have looked odd with a sword dangling against his bare legs. I was constantly amazed how he could escape a dozen soldiers armed only with a sword, black cape, and chandelier to swing from. That’s not something a man in short pants could have done, unless his plan was to distract them with laughter.

My favorite superheroes also wore long pants, except for Robin, who probably shouldn’t be counted. He was an assistant, not a stand-alone star. Batman, of course, had a full body costume, including tiny ears on top of his head that struck me as rather useless.

Full-length tights covered Superman’s legs for supersonic flights, probably to prevent windburn. I’m not saying a superhero can’t put on short pants occasionally, but they generally don’t pair well with capes. Superman’s garb was worn beneath his Clark Kent attire, so that it would only take a split second to change. Criminals are not inclined to hit the pause button while good guys switch outfits.

I’ve never tried to change clothes in a phone booth, but I think the camera crew sped up the film for that scene. Otherwise, it would have been intolerably dull viewing. Plus, Superman’s identity could have been discovered and possibly have cost him his reporter’s job.

Sometimes late at night when sleep won’t come, I ponder how people reacted when they found the clothes Superman left behind. Did they know the items belonged to their beloved hero and leave them alone? Or did they think, wow, here’s a dark suit in my size that’s hardly been worn, plus shoes, belt, and stylish glasses.

A new group of cowboys soon came along, still dressed in long pants. Josh Randall, a bounty hunter, had an uncanny ability to dodge bullets by rolling in the streets or jumping behind water troughs. I used to wonder who plugged all the leaks after the shooting was over. Josh was unusual in that he carried a cut-down Winchester carbine. It never failed him that I recall.

Paladin hid a little derringer in his belt buckle. A single chamber was enough because of the uncertainty of who he would shoot. Or a gang’s leader, fearing for his own life, would order his cronies to drop their guns. That one bullet must have been huge to scare so many outlaws into submission.

Rowdy Yates, Gil Favor, Marshall Dillon and The Rifleman all wore long pants, plus Heath from The Big Valley and the Cartwright family on The Ponderosa. Daniel Boone had to because of poison ivy.           

My disapproving attitude toward wearing shorts may be why I had so carelessly donned them years ago. With a friendly smile Dr. Freeman asked, “Why do you have your shorts on backward, son?”

“So people won’t know if I’m coming or going,” I replied.

I’m not sure I remember the actual event or just think I do because my parents recounted it so many times. It’s my earliest recollection of saying something that caused someone to laugh. That was a good feeling back then and still is, but I’m finding humor increasingly refuses to be punctual. The window of opportunity for punch lines closes quickly.

Eventually I embraced short pants, despite having skinny snow-white legs that look better covered. Jane bought me some super comfortable shorts a couple of years back to wear around the house. Elastic waist bands allow me to pull them up high to imitate an old man.

A uniformed lady rang our doorbell as she delivered a package requiring a signature. “Your shorts are on backward,” she said politely, stifling her laughter as I scribbled my name.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I replied. “That’s the way my wife folded them.” I thought that was a pretty clever line. It would have been a lot funnier if I’d said it before she drove away.

It seems like only yesterday I was waiting for the announcer to say, “From out of the clear blue of the western sky comes Sky King!” Then came the thrilling sound and sight of Songbird, his twin-engine Cessna, followed by the even more thrilling view of Penny, his cute teenage niece.

The only episode I recall, and it’s quite vague, is of someone getting bitten by a rattlesnake. Schuyler and Penny rescued him in dramatic fashion, preserving a perfect record of their weekly adventures. Good guys and gals always came out ahead back then, a storyline I still strongly prefer.   

The menacing image of that TV rattler prompted me to order a snake bite kit. I kept it in my tackle box, thinking the most likely place to need it was while fishing in a pond or on a creek bank. Sometimes, though, I’d put it in the front pocket of my Levi jeans, confidently prepared for a possible encounter. I wasn’t looking for trouble but was ready if trouble came looking for me.   

Two rubber suction cups fit snugly together and were designed for extracting venom. Packed tightly inside the cups was a razor, a tiny bottle of antiseptic, and a shoelace style tourniquet. The kit was used only once in what admittedly was not a full-blown emergency. It was featured in a demonstrative talk in Mrs. Zeb Lackey’s Speech 101 class at Valdosta State College.

My presentation didn’t work out as well as expected. Dennis Mills, a close friend in the class, played the role of victim. I applied the tourniquet to his arm and sterilized the two dots drawn on his hand. Dennis, however, wouldn’t keep still for the incisions. Mrs. Lackey gave me a B plus, more for the entertainment value than quality of deliverance.

The rubber cups had almost dry-rotted by that time. Although they were useless, I was hesitant to discard a childhood treasure, even though medical experts had begun recommending victims seek professional assistance rather than relying on nervous amateurs. It was obvious my opportunity for a starring role in a snake drama had passed. 

Reminiscing about my snake bite kit reminded me of an old story about two middle-aged fellows, Jim and Bob, on a camping trip in the mountains. Jim, while answering nature’s call, was bitten on the southernmost part of his behind, smack dab in the middle of the Great Divide. The highly venomous culprit was a copperhead-diamondback, a rare moccasin-rattlesnake crossbreed. Bob ran as fast as he could three miles down the steep trail to an emergency phone they had passed earlier.

He called for help but was told it would take too long for anyone to get there. “The only way to save him,” said a local doctor with decades of experience, “is to make an incision at the site of the bite and suck the venom out. Otherwise,” he soberly added, “your friend is going to die.”

Bob trudged up the rocky incline, bearing the heavy load of a troubled mind. He found Jim gasping for air and struggling to remain conscious. “What’d you find out?” Jim asked in whispered desperation.

Looking deeply into his old pal’s pleading eyes, Bob tenderly wiped the sweat from Jim’s forehead with his handkerchief. “You’re my best friend, Jim, and I love you like a brother. It breaks my heart to tell you this, but the doctor said you’re going to die.”

It seems like only yesterday Penny King came to Macon, Georgia. I think it was for the annual March of Dimes telethon that was always carried on Channel 13 WMAZ, but that’s mostly a guess. Our family went to see her, but a close-up encounter led to a shattered dream. 

I knew Penny was a few years ahead of me, but I was tall for my age so there was a faint hope of future romance. It was a shocker to see a grown woman, somewhere in her thirties I supposed, wearing the teenage Penny’s cowboy hat. Perhaps it was a blessing to find out early TV characters are not forever young. It softened the blow years later of seeing Ellie Mae Clampett as a senior citizen.   

It seems like only yesterday Penny King had stolen my young heart. But a long time ago in Macon, Georgia, I figured things weren’t going to work out. And when a young man in Valdosta reluctantly tossed his snake bite kit into the trash, he knew in his heart their love would never be.

It seems like only yesterday I was sitting in Daddy’s lap shouting, “Rock! Rock! Rock!” My earliest memory is probably one of begging him to go faster in our old wooden chair. I was big enough to rock solo if my feet could have reached the floor, but he seemed to enjoy it as much as I did. 

Daddy would push the rocker back close to the tipping point, taking us on a high-thrill ride that required no tickets. That’s a vague memory, which likely would have completely faded except for my mother laughing about it over the years. Sedentary activities had no appeal at that point in life, but I’ve gradually embraced the concept and have almost perfected my technique.    

It seems like only yesterday Mr. Frank Giles was showing me a mongoose he secretly kept at Giles & Hodge Farm Center. When the mongoose escaped riding a spring-loaded door, a furry tail slapped me in the face. I thought I’d die or at best be scarred for life. Mr. Frank retired that prank after it caused a man’s heart to skip a few beats.

It seems like only yesterday wrestling in the dirt was a regular part of recess. We called it rasslin’ at Pinehurst Elementary and mimicked our favorite television heroes. We pulled for The Kentuckian and Andre the Giant and booed at evil villains like The Assassins. Sometimes we wondered how the referees could be so blind to the brazen cheating of the bad guys. Shouting at the screen was our only recourse as we hoped justice would prevail.  

It seems like only yesterday a bumblebee stung me as I played on the small front porch of Harmony Baptist Church. The hurt is long gone, but the curative process has stayed with me. Mr. Ernest Clemons, a gray-haired gentleman of my grandparents’ generation, put a wad of chewed tobacco on my arm. He pressed it firmly then told me to hold it in place. Whether tobacco has any medicinal value I don’t know, but it took my focus off the pain. Healing often begins with the mind.

It seems like only yesterday I was eating world class dinners with my great-aunt, Ruth Hill Shelton. She was a splendid old-style cook who milked a few cows and churned butter well into her senior years. She bartered her butter in Hawkinsville for groceries and made the world’s best pecan pies. That’s why Jane relies on her recipe and is passing it along to our grandchildren.

The only drawback of eating with Aunt Ruth was watery milk. I drank milk at every meal during early childhood, but what she served was sorely lacking in flavor. Blue John, as some folks call it, is what’s left after the cream is skimmed off. I understood she needed the cream for making butter, so drinking Blue John seemed a small price to pay for an otherwise awesome feast.               

It seems like only yesterday Grandmama Hill was packing her big family into a small house for frequent gatherings. TV tables helped accommodate the overflow crowds as did her merry approach to hosting. After a generous slice of Ethel Nelson’s egg custard pie, the men would adjourn to the screen porch while women washed dishes and kids rambled in the woods along the spring-fed stream.          

It seems like only yesterday I was plinking out a few simple piano tunes at Mama Joiner’s. I started taking lessons in the second grade from Mrs. Myrtle Peavy. We didn’t have a piano, so I’d walk the short distance to where my father grew up, set the alarm clock for 30 minutes, then practice with no hint of enthusiasm. Despite my lack of talent and effort, Mama Joiner always told me how good it sounded. I was grown before realizing her kind words reflected her love for me more than the music.                    

It seems like only yesterday I was following my father across a freshly plowed field, stretching my short legs to step in his footprints. Several decades later I was walking behind him on newly turned soil and realized I was again stepping in his tracks, this time without intention. It seemed too childish to mention, but that moment evolved into a cherished lesson.

That memory reminds me of the chorus of an old song. “Footprints of Jesus, that make the pathway glow; We will follow the steps of Jesus wher-e’er they go.” It seems like only yesterday I was singing those lines with innocent confidence. By now it should be second nature to follow in Jesus’ steps, but it’s not. It’s a challenge, because sometimes I don’t want to stretch my legs that far.                   

A friend of mine turned 70 not long ago. That’s happening more often than it used to, which has caused me to realize a lot of my favorite people are not spring chickens anymore. It’s possible they’re having similar thoughts about me, but I don’t think I’ll ask.

I sent my longtime pal a text for the occasion to say, “It seems like only yesterday you were 69.” That line needs to be retired, but good lines are hard to come by and not as easily summoned as they once were. Sharing that comment with him led me to reflect on some yesterdays of the distant past.

It seems like only yesterday I hitched a ride on the back of Uncle Murray’s truck without telling anyone. I was looking for Daddy and found out he was in Unadilla at Giles & Hodge Farm Center. Uncle Murray was headed there, so I climbed up the back bumper and took a seat atop the bags of seeds stacked higher than the cab. When people along the road tried to flag him down, he gave them a friendly wave back. That’s one of my earliest memories, probably from age three or four.

It seems like only yesterday I followed our boxer, Mug, into the wheat field and got lost. That also could have ended badly but once more a misadventure turned out fine. I’ve never been so glad to hear my mother’s voice. Nor have I ever gotten so much pleasure from cool water being splashed on my face at a backyard faucet. Plus, a good lesson came from that troubling experience. Daddy told me if I ever got lost again that I should look up.

It seems like only yesterday I was climbing aboard a yellow school bus for the first time. Mr. Bartlett, an ancient, gentle-natured man, was our driver. He graciously overlooked most of our mischief, even the spitball fights where wads of chewed paper were launched with rubber bands. Somewhere during those early grades, I lost my taste for paper, but I remember the flavor well.

Pinehurst didn’t have a kindergarten, but thanks to Captain Kangaroo I could sing the alphabet at age five. I still do sometimes, probably because it’s one of the few songs I know all the lyrics to.  

Mrs. Kathryn Roberts was our teacher. Her motherly demeanor and unlimited patience made her perfectly suited for young charges with too much energy to pay attention. I don’t remember any details of our studies, just that I liked Miss Kathryn and knew she liked me. I was too young to understand she loved us but figured that out later and enjoyed her friendship for many years.

Reflecting on my first-grade experience reminds me of a story I heard from Wayne Peavy about ten years ago. His father, Mr. E. B. Peavy, had told it to him decades earlier. It was a local tale about Vienna Elementary School in the 1930s or maybe before.   

There was a shoe repair shop in downtown Vienna owned by a Mr. Hampton, who was called Shoe by his friends and patrons. Mr. Hampton’s young son spent a lot of time at the shop, so someone began calling him Little Shoe, a nickname which stuck like the glue his father used to bond leather.

On Little Shoe’s first day of school, his teacher was conducting an informal assessment, trying to determine what each student might already know. She paused at Little Shoe’s desk and spoke softly, doing her best not to embarrass anyone.

“Little Shoe,” the teacher tenderly inquired, “do you know your ABCs?”

“Hell no!” said Little Shoe with substantial volume. “I ain’t been here but ten minutes!”

I’ll have to hide this week’s newspaper from the matriarch of our family, but that’s too good a story not to preserve the original. Mr. E. B. used to drop by Rooney Bowen Chevrolet when I worked there in the 1970s. He was a delightful gentleman, a retired farmer with a cheerful disposition and infectious laugh. My guess is he’s told St. Peter and several others about Little Shoe Hampton and had no complaints. It’s a humorous reminder that children tend to soak up whatever is spilled.   

It’s nice to revisit old memories, to savor the sweet ones and be thankful for what we’ve learned from the challenges. If you want to give it a try, just find a quiet, private place when you’re not in a hurry. Close your eyes, let your mind wander, and see where it takes you. It seems like only yesterday………    

Wisdom is a gifted thing, not just a function of the brain. Knowledge may be ours to own, but wisdom comes from God alone.

Theologian Reinhold Niebuhr wrote what is known as the “Serenity Prayer” – “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” The last part of that prayer is today’s focus. 

I’ve asked God for wisdom many times but can’t say for sure if I’ve ever heard back. Lately I’ve been wondering if He’s responding to my query with one of His own. That’s a teaching style Jesus often used, and we can say with confidence, “like Father like Son.”

Perhaps God, with a loving twinkle in His eye, is patiently asking, “Neil, why do you want more wisdom when you don’t use what I’ve already given you?” I don’t have a good answer.

To be clear, God has never spoken audibly to me or used a finger to write on a wall as King Belshazzar experienced in the fifth chapter of Daniel. There have been no burning bushes, tongues of fire, or even gentle breezes which I knew with certainty were a sign from above. I can’t profess to anything beyond a still small voice that prods my conscience more often than should be needed. That may be the extent of my experiences because God knows it’s all I’m prepared to receive.

So, I’m not claiming this potential answer to my prayers for wisdom came through extraordinary revelation. What I’m saying is I’ve come to realize God has little reason to give me more of something which I already neglect to take full advantage of. Plus, my motives have often been less than the best.

The first chapter of 2 Chronicles records God telling King Solomon to ask for whatever he wants. Solomon asked God for wisdom and knowledge, two things I would not likely have put at the top of my list. We talked about that scripture in our men’s Sunday School class at Vienna First Baptist a few years ago. I was teaching that morning and posed a discussion question, “Would you rather have great wisdom or tons of money?”

A good friend named Mike, a faithful man with a quiet demeanor, said, “I’d take the money.” We all smiled during a silent pause, expecting he might comment further. “With enough money,” he explained, “I could hire someone with wisdom.” That’s just bonus material to let you know Bible Study doesn’t preclude joviality. If you want to see for yourself, we meet at ten a.m.    

God was pleased with Solomon’s response. “Since this is your heart’s desire and you have not asked for wealth, riches or honor, nor for the death of your enemies, and since you have not asked for a long life but for wisdom and knowledge to govern my people over whom I have made you king, therefore wisdom and knowledge will be given you. And I will also give you wealth, riches and honor, such as no king who was before you ever had and none after you will have.”

Solomon’s request was so pleasing to God that He gave him much more than he asked for. When I’ve prayed for wisdom, my thoughts have frequently been self-centered. My pleas have often had an element of distress as in, “God give me the wisdom to get out of this mess I created.” Maybe acknowledging my shortcoming is a small but necessary step toward improvement.

It’s also important to note that God may grant wisdom yet allow us to ignore it. Solomon is a good example of that with 700 wives and 300 concubines. At times I’ve wondered how the world’s wisest man could act so foolishly. Solomon, though, might suggest I sweep around my own doorsteps rather than attend to his. It’s more tempting to be critical than self-analytical.       

Reflecting on the last part of the “Serenity Prayer” led me to a couple of conclusions. Pleas for wisdom should focus on accomplishing God’s plans for me not my plans for Him. And before I ask for greater wisdom, I need to do a better job of using what I already have.

I asked to be a wiser man. “Not now,” God said, “but ask again. First you need to do your part, for wisdom thrives in humble hearts.”     

Recent columns have noted my hearty agreement with the notion of dogs being man’s best friend. On a side note, I’m not sure whether it’s proper to say “dog is” or “dogs are” nor if it should be “friend” or “friends.”

“Dog is man’s best friend,” is how I originally wrote it, which is a common expression. That sounds right, but when I substituted “cat” for “dog” it gave me an odd sensation. I don’t know if that’s a grammatical issue or evidence of a bias toward canines. We tend to defend what we choose to approve.

Cats hold a solid second place in my personal rankings, but I was baffled as to why some folks place them ahead of dogs. I asked the renowned research department at Joiner’s Corner to investigate why people would elevate felines above canines. In 87 percent of the cases, it was due to the person never owning a dog. Now it makes more sense.    

Regardless of their friendship position, there is ample evidence that dogs and cats hold the top two spots. Thinking about that led me to do a bit of pondering. Who or what is man’s third best friend? I don’t know the answer. These are random thoughts in a quest for truth.

Although I am reluctant to admit it, the bronze medal may go to chickens. I’ve disclosed earlier my childhood traumas of gathering eggs guarded by vicious setting hens. Nightmares of their attacks are infrequent now, but I have no interest in befriending a chicken, not even one that’s house-broken and can carry a tune.

In fairness, however, there are respectable citizens who keep layers in their back yard, give them cute names, and cradle them in their arms like babies. That seems like a recipe for disaster. Surely it must be distasteful when they quit laying and wind up in the dumplings.

I’m not interested in any long-term relationships with chickens. We do, however, buy cage-free eggs. It only costs a little more and I figure everything deserves room enough to square dance to Wildwood Flower. I’d go crazy cooped up in a small pen, which so far has been sufficient incentive to avoid behaviors that could lead to a jail cell.

If chickens seem a foul choice, perhaps pigs should be ranked as man’s third best friend. Rufus was my childhood buddy. He was a remarkable young barrow, both brilliant and affectionate with impeccable manners. I still have a tinge of guilt when I recall his bewildered look as he walked toward the truck from the sale barn. It wouldn’t have helped to explain so I turned the other way.   

A significant problem with having a pig is they keep growing. The little pot-bellied pigs are a manageable size, but they don’t strike me as the optimal choice for residential living. Pigs are smart and trainable. It seems like a miniature and more mobile version of domesticated swine could be bred for pets. If that’s ever done, dogs and cats may be in for some competition.

Rabbits deserve mentioning, but I’m not sure about their ranking. They’re cute, have gentle dispositions, and don’t awaken you at night with barking or shred your shoelaces with their claws. They’re good listeners, and if you get tired of taking care of them, they taste a lot like chicken.          

Perhaps fish should be considered. When Jane and I were newlyweds living in Tallahassee, we bought an aquarium and several varieties of colorful tropical fish. They were enchanting until our angel fish attacked our neons by taking cheap shots at their eyes. And our catfish, even with a filtration system, couldn’t keep the bottom clean so the water required regular changes.

Turtles, snakes, frogs, hamsters, ducks, and other critters are kept by some as pets. The late Billy Patton, from Pinehurst, had a skunk, a perfect solution for company that stays too long.

I’d love to hear other thoughts regarding man’s third best friend. Our cat, Tabs, nominated gerbils and wants one for a playmate. So far, I’ve refused, because her intentions may not be honorable.

On a temporary basis, I’m awarding the third spot to fish. I don’t think they deserve it, but at least I won’t have to decide between “fish” or” fishes.” Or will I?  

Last week’s column ended on a melancholy note as my friends, Kay and Eugene, said goodbye to a special family member named Lucy. Another kitten, however, soon filled that empty spot. Bo wasn’t invited. He just showed up and turned on the charm. That’s quite often how cats become pets.

Eugene and my neighbor, John Causey, have a world-class take-out restaurant called Good to Go in Vienna. I’m not sure how their watch-cat program began, but well-fed felines guard the back door. Big Orange looks like he could take care of himself and might be hoping for an opportunity. He’s a bit heavy for chasing mice but doesn’t need to except for recreation.  

When a litter of kittens came along, splendid accommodations and excellent menu choices were provided. Curiosity, however, compels cats to explore their options, even those that are dangerous.

Crawling up under a hood sometimes leads to disaster, but Bo’s trip in Eugene’s engine compartment ended well. Whether he’s smart or lucky is hard to say. He may have enjoyed the seven-mile ride or could have just been too scared to get off. Kay heard a soft meow. Eugene hoped it was his wife’s imagination.

They lured the tiny fellow out with food and figured he deserved to stay. Eugene whispered so the kitten couldn’t hear him. “That’s not the one I would have picked,” he said. But it didn’t take Bo long to find the foot of their bed. He sleeps six hours then playfully attacks their toes. We don’t always choose our cats. Sometimes they choose us.

Tabatha McGee Joiner began her journey to our house in a similar way. She came to us after spending her early days in the Mike McGee Home for Abandoned Kittens. It was the second cat we adopted from there, each already spoiled by management’s personal attention.

The first one, Missy, had been rescued from the highway by Mike. She was adorable but loved to ramble in the swampy woods behind our house at night. I guess she got careless or maybe stalked the wrong critter. We searched for days, walking, hoping, and calling her name, but there wasn’t a trace.

Not long after Missy disappeared, Mike’s wife, Brenda, told me they had another rescue who needed a home. Just as before, they’d already taken her to the vet for shots and surgery. And once again, Mike had made the kitten feel so welcome in his lap she thought it was her calling.

Someone may have put Missy and Tabs out to fend for themselves. That’s a callous thing to do but it happens. It’s just as likely, however, that each of them hitched a ride on a vehicle and dropped off when it stopped. It’s a risky way to find a home, but sometimes that’s how cats become pets.

We always had a yard dog when I was growing up but not any cats that I recall. In retrospect, we could have used a few. With cows, hogs, and chickens on the farm, rats were constantly stealing feed. Rather than dining from a trough they’d chew holes in the burlap bags, apparently favoring sack lunches.

Beulah was the first cat Jane and I had, and Sugar lived the longest, staying with us for 18 memorable years. There was Ponch, named after a TV motorcycle cop, and others I can’t readily name.  Pepper was one of our triplets’ favorites, somehow endearing himself more than usual. It was a sad discovery when I saw his lifeless body on Coney Road.

Jane had taken Carrie to a gymnastic meet that Saturday. Erin, Seth, and I had spent the morning with my folks at the farm. We were almost home when I pulled over and asked them to stay in the car. I put Pepper in the trunk and told them I was sorry. I wrapped him in a blanket and buried him in our back yard, then left a loving note to our children on the kitchen table.

An hour or so later, Erin came outside. “Daddy, what you wrote was really sweet and we appreciate it very much, but we don’t know whose cat you buried.” Pepper got some extra attention as we wondered who had been tenderly interred on DeLiesseline Drive. The kids thought it was especially humorous that I had overlooked some anatomical inconsistencies. It’s hard to think clearly in the midst of grief.

Some cats are brought home intentionally while others just show up. Either way, they tend to fill any empty spots in our hearts or make a special place of their own. With gentle purrs and nudges, they subtly become beloved members of our families. And that’s quite often how cats become pets.      

Last week I affirmed my belief that dogs are man’s best friend, while casting a second-place vote for cats. Some would reverse that ranking. It all depends on who finds a path to your heart. A cat named Lucy traveled that road with some friends of mine.

Kay Bowen Cason and I began first grade together at Pinehurst Elementary School. A year or so ago she told me about a special pet in their family. The story began with a helpless kitten.

Mrs. Louise Bowen, Kay’s mother, moved in with Kay and her husband, Eugene, during her later years. Her cats, however, remained on the family farm where they went to feed and pet them each day.

Cats have always been a part of Kay’s life. During childhood she enjoyed watching her father, Mr. Carl, train them. He called their feline pets his boys and would walk them to the field across the road to conduct essential business. Then he rewarded each one with a boll of cotton to take home. Their yard was often decorated with scattered white fibers, adeptly shredded by playful claws. 

One Friday after work, Kay went by the homestead as usual to check on the cats. She saw a tiny kitten all alone. There wasn’t a mama cat around, so where the new addition came from was a mystery. The kitty was small enough to fit in Kay’s palm, but she resisted the urge to cuddle her. Mr. Carl had taught her not to touch an infant kitten, that it could cause the mother to reject it.

With considerable hesitation, she left the kitten where she found her, hoping for the best while fearing the worst. After a miserable night of uncertainty, Kay made a hurried early morning drive back. The weather had suddenly turned cold and the little kitten felt like a block of ice. Kay wrapped her tightly in a towel and held her close to her body, warming her as they headed toward home.

When she walked through the door Eugene was elated. “Please tell me you don’t have another cat!” he said. Maybe his elation wasn’t instantaneous, but he mellowed quickly. Lucy had to be fed with a syringe and he did most of the feeding. Afterward he’d take a warm, damp, paper towel and wipe her off. It was as close as he could get to a mother cat licking her baby clean.

After bath time, Eugene began wadding up a paper towel into a ball and tossing it, teaching Lucy to chase and retrieve. I might have been skeptical about that story had I not seen the video. Cats apparently are more trainable than I realized. Having a good teacher must be the key.

Eugene’s shirt pocket was where Lucy enjoyed spending time. When she could no longer squeeze her way in, she found a new ride. She would put her paws on the bar of Miss Louise’s walker and accompany her around the house, never asking where they were headed or when they’d be back.

With Eugene and Kay both working, Lucy became Miss Louise’s best buddy. They spent hours together in a recliner with Lucy sucking on a bit of blanket as if it were yielding milk. After Miss Louise died, Lucy picked Kay as her favorite. Maybe she remembered who brought her to the dance.

Lucy began sleeping in the bed with Kay and Eugene, continuing to favor the lady of the house. Without offering any explanation, in the middle of 2020 she moved to Eugene’s side. That’s where she stayed until just before Christmas.

Her breathing was labored so they took her to their vet in Cordele. She went home with more medicine than hope. That weekend Lucy eased out of their bed without waking them. Kay found her on the bathroom floor suffering with the kind of pain that begs for merciful relief. The after-hours recording at Cordele Animal Hospital referred them to a Warner Robins clinic for emergencies.

Kay and Eugene took Lucy on a somber ride, not an easy trip even though they knew it was for the best. They were completely surprised to be greeted by their own veterinarian, a lady who knew Lucy well and had attended her earlier in the week. It was a small but welcome blessing on a difficult day.  

My opinion about who man’s best friend is hasn’t changed. But if someone says cats deserve first place, I can’t say for sure they’re wrong. It all depends on who finds a path to your heart. A cat named Lucy traveled that road with some friends of mine.

Dogs have been featured in several columns, so it’s not surprising a few readers noticed cats have been ignored. I’ll try to rectify that to some extent today but should disclose a substantial bias. I believe, without any reservation, dogs are rightfully designated as man’s best friend.

I once read of a simple test to determine whether your wife or dog loves you more. It suggested putting them in the car trunk for a short ride, then letting them out. “Who,” the writer asked, “do you think will be happiest to see you?”

That seemed like a valid exercise, but my truck doesn’t have a trunk. Besides, there’s no room for debate about who would wag their tails and jump into our arms.     

Cats, unlike dogs, are quite unpredictable. The initial hurdle in using that same assessment would be getting a cat into a trunk, unless it’s their idea. A case in point is my wife’s admirable attempt to save our feline friend, Tabs, from a monstrous snake. Based on her description it was either a boa constrictor or Burmese python.

Tabatha McGee Joiner was behaving rather strangely, so Jane took a closer look. Rather than stalking her usual prey of lizards and birds, she had crept within an arm’s length of an oversized foe. Jane feared our cat might be biting off more than she could chew.

Four out of ten men would have blasted the snake into eternity. One would have gently relocated it to a new home. The other five would have wished the cat good luck, even if it was halftime during a lopsided game. Women, however, have a strong protective gene and incomparable courage. That works great taking care of children but not always with cats.

Urgent pleas could not distract Tabs from the fascinating buffet. Although Jane is afraid of gigantic snakes of any persuasion, she made a rescue grab that came with a painful lesson. Our cat doesn’t adhere to the adage, “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

Jane’s hand was sore for two weeks. Thankfully, it didn’t get infected, but twice I found her curled up in a sunny spot making purring sounds. That made me a bit nervous at bedtime, but she keeps her nails cut short and the symptoms diminished as the punctures healed.

Assuming that a man was able to get his spouse and cat into a trunk together, we can’t know what might happen when the lid is popped. The cat may be glad to see him, or it could scamper off and hide for a while. The third outcome might be menacing hisses as it dares him to touch it. Cats make their own rules. They aren’t prone to take orders.  

The thing that bothers me most with cats is that it’s hard to tell what they’re thinking. Dogs have telling facial expressions including disarming smiles. Even when they aren’t grinning their tails wag in appreciation of the tiniest show of kindness. Cats, however, have an aloofness that leaves me wondering if they are up to some mischief, like pouncing on an unsuspecting target.

Feline affection also comes in odd forms. Tabs brings mice, lizards, and birds to our doorsteps. We’d rather she didn’t, but I guess she wants us to know she’s earning her keep. I wish we could train her to leave the birds alone, but I can tell by her yawns she never pays attention to my lectures. 

If you see me running in our side yard at full speed, which is about three miles per hour, I’m chasing rabbits. Tabs has regrettably caught a few that were too slow or naive. Bunnies don’t stand a chance against her sharp claws, so I encourage them to move on. My wife’s flower garden, however, keeps them coming back. Maybe that’s why our precocious pet is partial to her.  

Tabs has some behaviors we’d like to change but also some endearing qualities. When I sit in our garage to put on my work shoes, she faithfully joins me on the bench. She rubs up against me and meows softly, making it impossible not to scratch behind her soft ears. At night I caution her about rambling in the woods where the bobcats and coyotes prowl, but she doesn’t listen and has no idea we worry about her.

The title of man’s best friend belongs to the dogs, but if you’ve never held a purring cat in your lap you might want to give it a try. In a contest for second place, that’s where my vote would go.