Cat could not be blamed for keys

Editor’s note: This column is being reprinted from Oct. 22, 2003. The only surprising thing about this column is that Jack didn’t mention anything about spending some of his waiting time watching birds. That activity would have been a nice bookend for a day that started with ducks and a heron.

The black cat crossed my path in Markle.

It had been a beautiful day up to that point. I’d set out about 7 a.m. for North Manchester, fulfilling a commitment to lead a workshop discussion at Manchester College about free press issues in the former Soviet Union.

On the way up, I passed through the Loblolly Wetlands Preserve, seeing hundreds of ducks and spotting a Great Blue Heron.

I figured the heron was a good enough omen to ward off whatever Halloween bad luck the black cat might send my way.

And for a while the day went well.

I survived the workshop, then came home by way of Fort Wayne, stopping at the Journal-Gazette office in hopes of running into a couple of friends.

It wasn’t until I pulled into the drive about 2:30 p.m. that I remembered the black cat.

That was at the instant I remembered that my house keys were safely tucked away in the left hand pocket of the leather jacket I wore when shooting sideline pictures at Friday night’s Patriot football game.

And that was the instant I suspected the house was locked.

Connie and Sally had indefinite plans for the day, so I had no clue where they might be.

I tried the front door. Locked.

I tried the doorbell. That only served to wake up the dog, who was hopelessly confused.

If your brain were the size of a walnut, you’d be confused by a doorbell too.

I walked around back, noting that Connie’s Jeep was gone, and tried the back door.

Locked.

It’s not that we expect high crime to be rampant on the west side of Portland. It’s just that after living in a big city apartment for several years, we got used to locking our doors.

Most of the time, it’s no problem. But when your keys are in your left hand jacket pocket and you know your jacket is hanging in the hall closet inside a locked house, it’s a problem.

I hauled my briefcase and trenchcoat to the patio, grumbling all the way.

It was now 2:30 p.m., and my day had started at 7 a.m., so I did the only natural American thing. I went to McDonald’s. With a burger and a Diet Coke, I headed back to the patio to wait.

Hauling a chair from the garage, I found a place in the sun and chowed down.

Half an hour later, I’d run out of food and was beginning to run out of patience.

Fortunately, the U.S. Postal Service came to call. Unfortunately, the only things delivered were catalogs which will soon be recycled and bills that will soon have to be paid.

An hour in, I remembered that my daughter Sally had hung a new dartboard in the garage. Twenty minutes later, I came to the conclusion that there’s really only so long a person can play darts.

For awhile, I said I’d quit after my first bullseye. Then it was after my second.

After my third, I figured I should shoot for five.

By now, the sun had settled low enough into the sky that the shadow of our garage covered the entire patio, making it far less inviting.

To my great relief, it was about that time that my wife and daughter came home. With the keys.

They were sympathetic about my lock-out. Fortunately, the weather had been good.

But the only one I could really blame was me. I was the one who left my keys in the left pocket of a jacket in the front hallway.

There’s no way I could pin that on a black cat in Markle. Or is there?