January 26

Jones’ hind legs were sound and even graceful.  When petted, he stood high on his toes like a ballet dancer and looked capable of striding across the dining room to greet arriving guests.

Unfortunately, his front legs were a disaster.  They bent in such alarming ways that Jones tripped on his own feet when there wasn’t anything else to fall over.  His cat components definitely did not work well together.

Not so certain was an alleged experience Jones had when just a kitten.  True story or not, Shenango cats enjoyed repeating it whenever the Carrier reported another new Jones catastrophe. The tale had even become a local Christmas tradition.  Only Raspberry knew the truth, and though she never confirmed the episode, she never whispered a denial.

Both Berry and Jones had been born at Mooner Farm.  Jones’ attractiveness had won him a home at the Golden Apple when he was only weeks old, so Berry’s contention that her brother had been adopted before he could properly learn springstep had some merit.  Once settled at the restaurant, Jones seemed to be maturing into a first-rate domestic pet. One of his favorite pastimes was to lie on a second-floor love seat, enjoying the classical music played for Apple patrons dining below.  Lulled by beautiful orchestrations, he dreamed of pirouettes, arabesques and Manx Nijinskys.

On his first Christmas Eve, the Golden Apple’s grand dining room was bedecked with large, fragrant wreaths and a glittering twelve-foot Christmas tree. Amid holiday strains of the Nutcracker Suite, the restaurant was hosting an evening banquet for members of the Shenango Country Club.  All was decorously sedate until one of the diners suddenly remembered that he had once seen the Nutcracker performed by a famous Russian dancer. This gent yelled  “BARYSHNIKOV!” just as the music stopped.

One floor up, this exclamation startled Jones wide awake and he flew off the love seat.  Scrabbling for traction on the hardwood floor, he flipped head-over-paws down the spiral staircase and rolled across the dining room, flattening two waitresses carrying full trays of food.  Sliding through the spilled entrees, he ricocheted into the Christmas tree, raining gilt apple ornaments down on all the blue-nosed Country Clubbers. Finally he slammed against a wall, knotted tight in red and green garland. 

 From that moment on, the story goes, Jones was afflicted with Punky Paws.  And if any Golden Apple diner should ever let loose with a sneeze sounding remotely like “Baryshnikov” the result was good for at least a week’s worth of Carrier news.