Lou Milner - Jack and the Cat Meet the Hag in the Box

Jack & the Cat
Meet the Hag in the Box

by Lou Milner

Background:
There was a story in the Tillamook (Oregon) Oregon Herald about a strange woman who showed up in the Port of Garibaldi. She was making repairs to a 4' x 8' "vessel" that resembled an old packing crate. When port manager Don Bacon got wind of the project, he said the vessel was a safety hazard, and he prevented the woman from sailing.

The woman, without argument, packed up her two shoulder bags and disappeared down Highway U.S. 10. Nobody seemed to know who she was, where she came from, or where she was going—nobody, except Jack and his Cat.

While out on their daily perambulation one less-than-fine, windy, sea-salty day last summer—which seemed more like winter because that's the kind of winter it was all summer—Captain Jack and his cat named Ciro came across an old scarecrow living in a box along the Island Highway.

"What the heck are you doing in that box, lady?" the bandy-legged Captain assailed.

"What the heck are you doing walking a cat as if it were a dog?" was the scarecrow's retort.

"What cat?" said the Captain, feeling smug. For without even looking, he knew Ciro, who was not the kind of cat who took kindly to strangers, would be nowhere in sight. Yup, by now he would have high-tailed it like a skunk out of spray. And the old lady would think she was demented talking about a cat who wasn't there.

"That cat. That stripy cross-eyed thing at your feet," countered the crone who was nowhere near crazy.

The captain looked down and, sure enough, there was Ciro sitting placid as you please, purring even, confounding the Captain for all he was worth, which right now was not much.

Temporarily at a loss, the Captain, who had tried less than full heartedly on numerous occasions to quit, reached for his smokes. And, as usual, with the first inhalation something magical happened. The Captain was filled with boldness and originality: "Hmph," he grunted inventively. "You got a building permit for that crate?"

"Don't need one, it's a boat."

"A boat," said the Captain with renewed interest. "I have a 350 tonne master's ticket. Got it right here in beautiful British Columbia. I've tooted and tugged and pushed and pulled and plied and streamed and drifted on tugs and tows and barges and ferries, up the passes, around the eddies, through the rapids, down the straits, out of the bays, and I have never seen a boat like yours."

"Come on aboard," invited the hag, "and I'll show you around."

She may have been ragged and sagged and a little bit mean;

She may have been dusty and musty and not very clean.

She may have been fishy and squishy the color of green;

But she was cat-quick and snot-slick in her mental hygiene—

though she was due for her annual checkup.

Today, anyway, she was sharp as a wooden sliver stuck in a cat's paw. "MEOOW-WOOF!" cried Ciro the catdog, whose own inspection of the box was pointedly halted. As natural as anything, the witch bent down, picked up the kitty, and plucked out the shard.

The Captain had never see such a trick; no one before had come close to his kit. Old Jack was mightily impressed and a tiny bit hurt. The Captain had previously taken great pride in knowing that Ciro was a one-man cat. What if word got out that he'd been replaced by a wretched old biddy?

"So where are you heading and when are you leaving?" queried the man, trying to sound as casual as he could whilst looking around the two-room, eight-by-four-foot crate. "Nice set-up you got here," said he, barely able to conceal his concern.

"You think so?" said the woman, amazed, because she thought it needed a lot of work.

"Well, it could use a bit of fixing up, sure, but overall, she looks sound. Heck, me and my kitty have sailed in worse. Why I remember the time Ciro and me was cast to sea by a great big wind and all we had for a boat was a deck. Remember that?" the Captain asked his cat. "Meeow," came the answer, which thinly translated meant: Remember? How could I forget? And if it weren't for me catching all those fish, you wouldn't even be here to tell the story.

All that reminiscing made Ciro's tummy growl, which the witch was quick to note. "Poor kitty, are you hungry?"

"Aowh meow."

"Why don't you boys stay for dinner? I was just about to clean my catch and pick up a few trimmings for a barbeque on the beach."

A barbeque! We love barbeques, don't we? the Cat telepathed rhetorically to his master.

"Thank you, we will."

And so the three set out—the lady, the laddy, and the catty—to collect the fixin's for a feast.

They found mussels and clams and cockles and kelp,

Jelly blobs, sea squirts, snails and smelts.

They caught starfish and dogfish and salmon and snapper

All from the sea in a giant crab trapper.

They cleaned some and shucked some and steamed some and baked some

Chewed, chawed, swallowed and belched.

They yimmered and yammered and told lies and meowed

Gobbled fillets from skillets and made the cook proud.

As the sun set and dinner settled, the Captain and the hag carried on jawing, while Ciro the Cat took a nap on Jack's lap. They talked about fishing and logging and family and books, and jostling her box back into the brook.

It had always been a dream, said she, to put hopes in a chest and set off to sea. Had a brother down south, she'd heard word of mouth, was searching for her. Born to wander, the two had drifted apart; by the age of four, he went sou' and she went 'nor.

Now all teared-up in the lady's story, Jack the sap, told her not to worry. He'd think of a way to cast her on fate, set the box right for a dip in the Strait. "Hold onto your dream, we'll come up with a scheme," Ciro overheard his captain console.

Being a big fan of Farley Mowat, Jack recollected how Farley'd once done it; no doubt the hag could do the same. They'd drag the box to the mouth of the Oyster River where the mud and the silt would seep in to fill the cracks, thus making the crate watertight.

It was at this point that Ciro could no longer feign sleep and indifference. He blinked up at his master, thereby reminding him that Farley's story was titled "The Boat Who Wouldn't Float."

"A-hem," coughed Jack, as he flicked the ash from his smoke. "Maybe that wouldn't work so good this time of year—I shouldn't have spoke." And just as Ciro was curling back for a snooze, he heard the Cap'n utter: "But I have another notion about getting your box into the ocean."

Uh-oh, thought Ciro, as he sheltered his ears with his paws, fearing that hearing

the new idea would be no panacea.

Yuh, we'll find ourselves a couple of nice, light, high-floating cedar poles, and just like the Tahitians, we'll lash a couple of outriggers to your box, 'round about the water line; that'll keep her stable on the big swells. And me and my kitty'll tow you from shore. We'll go home" [Ciro's paws fell from his ears] "and get that rubber boat we drug in a couple or three seasons back…"

But, but, but, reasoned Ciro, for the last seven years, that boat, the RB Mort, has lost air every time you filled it, and the only time it's been to sea is the time you found it abandoned with nothing floating but the rope you hauled it in by.

The Captain continued as though Ciro had never spoken: "It's been up in the rafters just waiting to be liberated. Here kitty-kitty, let's go get us that boat." And with those generous words they were off into the night, leaving the hag to clean up their dishes and skeleton fishes.

As the sun came up, true to their word, the boys were back, outriggers in tow. Even the little rubber boat looked like it might be able to handle the job.

"Come on, Queenie," said the bewitched Captain referring to the hag, "Get in your box. We've got a tide to catch."

Determined to haul the Queen's yacht into the Gulf of Georgia, Jack and the Cat took their places at stern and bow and rowed for all they could, trying to hook the last flood tide running through Seymour Narrows and Discovery Pass.

The sou'wester blew into a sou'easter, and the boys had to keep cranking and rowing and bobbing and towing. They got all the way to Sentry Shoal before catching up with a cooperative northwest tempest that could blow Queenie down the Gulf. Yes sir, as soon as they got the towline detached, she'd be on her way to sunnier climes, California: where summer meant summer.

But something was wrong; the rubber boat was no longer completely afloat.

Hearing meowing and yelling, the hag sensed disaster, and, looking over her starboard side, she couldn't help but notice Master Jack and his cat splashing toward her for all they could muster. Reaching out with a carving knife, she cut the line and set herself adrift. Then, and thankfully from Ciro's point of view, the hag caught the furball and dragged him on deck.

Now within the safe, warm web of the witch, Ciro the kitty felt a tug of pity and purred his concern for the old Captain, who was having a heck of a time. "Much as I'd like to help, Handsome, crooned the crone to soften the blow, I don't think my vessel could hold us all three."

"Course it could, you daft old bat. Throw the Cat's tail over and haul me aboard," came the Captain's reply.

And just as Ciro the hero was about to make good, the sound of a big war machine came hurling toward his hearing. Looking up through his aqua-blue eyes, Ciro could see a 28-foot aluminum hull speeding toward them at 30 knots. "MEOOOW!" came his cry as he scrambled and scratched his way back to safety.

The boat passed the trio like they were nothing but mist, and seemed not to notice the box in distress. But the Captain saw help and threw out some kelp to suck into the jet as he hollered, "Big Dave!" And sure enough it was his buddy, Whitewater Dave, carrying out sea trials and in one heck of a hurry heading for Bremerton Navy Base.

"Jeeze, Jack, what're you doing? You almost wrecked my impeller and I've got a big sale to make."

"I don't give a good caught cod about your bake table, have you never heard the expression about a friend in need? You think I'm out in the middle of the Pacific in all my clothes just having a little swim?"

Big Dave considered, and for the first time seemed somewhat aware that it was in fact odd to find Jack so far from shore. "Is that you, Ciro?" called Dave as he noticed the box.

"Meow."

"Son-of-a-seadog, you look awful, poor thing, come on over and see Uncle Dave," said Uncle Dave as he reached for the Cat. And in no time at all Ciro was purring and basking and happy again.

"Put the coddamn cat down and throw me the ring for crying out loud!" barked the Captain whose patience was drowned.

"Ah heck, I was just having a bit of fun," said the giant, as he reached out a hand and grappled his friend aboard. "Where to?"

"That's better. You can drop me and Ciro over there at Boho Bay and drag the hag over the border with you."

And that's how the hag ended up down in Garibaldi. 'Course by the time she got there, she'd been battled and rattled and jostled and banged. And her box that served as a boat was now barely a board; even she could see that. So when the port manager, some ham named Bacon, demanded Queenie abandon ship, she put up nary a struggle. Instead, she packed up what remained of her belongings and struck off into the night.

Last Jack and the Cat heard, like a Canada goose, the hag was flying south on 101 heading for Big Surr, where all the old ducks were a little bit quacked.

Still, they had to admit, the Queen and her yacht proved quite an adventure, and it wouldn't have happened if it weren't for their custom of combing the beaches. She was lucky they came along, as she never could have made it on her own in that crappy old crate. "Yes, sirree Ciro," came the Captain's reminder, "you never know when you might need a friend or meet a friend in a seafaring community."

Yawn, responded the Cat, as he purred off to sleep.