Mark was a social worker at the Department of Social Services, assigned to work with the elderly. In his early-thirties, Mark enjoyed working with folks that had some age to them. He thought that one can’t live for many years without having had some experiences along the way, and he wanted to hear the stories. Mark found his clients interesting.

One old gent lived alone in a poorly maintained rental house in a rough part of the city. The neighborhood kids snickered about his name, Mr. White. Mr. White was white. The house was structurally unsound, poorly maintained, and it wasn’t close to being clean, not even by Mark’s tolerant social-worker-for-the-elderly standards.

Mr. White had had a wife once, but that was long ago. Yet he wasn’t alone. He had Charley. Charley was his cat. He was of no particular breed, not that Mark would have known one kind of cat from another. Mr. White talked to Charley, and let Charley up on the table. On one visit, Mark noticed Charley licking the block of margarine which was always on the table, and never covered. Early in their relationship, Mark had accepted a cup of coffee, and found the cup and the contents to be a bit more furry than he would have preferred.

Mr. White had no car. He lived off a meager Social Security claim, based upon his old age and his not altogether rewarding work history. It was becoming increasingly difficult for Mr. White to get to the store. He was unsteady on his feet, and starting to fall more frequently, even in the summer when the sidewalks were clear. Footing was much more treacherous during a Grand Rapids winter. Mr. White was not at all looking forward to another cold, shut-in snow season. It was almost Thanksgiving.

“Mr. White,” Mark told him on one visit, “Winter’s coming. I want you to think about some things. Last winter was very difficult for you. This next one might be more so. If you’d like, I can help you get into an adult foster care home. You’d live in a family home, with other guys around your age. There’d be a couple there to look out for you, cook for you, do your laundry, keep the place clean. It wouldn’t be fancy, but it would be nice enough, with three squares a day, transportation if you need to go somewhere, other guys your age. You could play cards, watch TV, tell yarns. I think you might like it.”

Mark had broached this topic with other elderly clients before. Often he was met with resistance. Such a move was scary to people who had lived in the same place for a long time. But Mark thought Mr. White might like it, if he’d give it a try.

“That sounds interestin’,” said Mr. White. “I’m gettin’ kinda tired of my own cookin’. And I sorta miss gettin’ talked back to when I talk. But I could never leave Charley. Much as I might like gettin’ them meals ever’ day, me and Charley have come a long road together. We cain’t be apart, not so long as we’re both suckin’ air.”

Mr. White was a likeable guy. His outlook was positive, despite his difficult circumstances. He was always grateful for any kind of assistance, or even attention, and he had a ready smile.

Mark was able to convey these qualities to the owners of an AFC Home in nearby Grandville. They had an opening in their home for another elderly man, and liked the idea of having an agreeable guy likely to get along with the other residents.

“There’s a drawback, though,” Mark said. “Mr. White is very attached to his cat, Charley. Charley seems nice enough, I suppose, although he does jump up on things. But I don’t think Mr. White would consider a move without Charley.”

Mr. and Mrs. Gorham looked at each other. There were financial incentives to keep the AFC Home’s occupancy full, and Mr. White sounded like a good resident.

“Mr. White can come. He can bring Charley. We like cats. We’ll help Charley learn the rules. We’ve had cats before. They can learn pretty quickly if you’re good with a spray bottle. A little bit of water sprayed on him, and a cat gets the idea. Mr. White sounds just fine.”

Mark was happy to go to Mr. White with the news, and Mr. White was happy to hear it. Mr. White — and Charley — would move to the AFC Home on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Mr. and Mrs. Gorham’s sons would help with the move. It wouldn’t be difficult; Mr. White didn’t have much.

Late in the afternoon of that Wednesday, Mark called over to the AFC Home. “The move went OK,” he was told, “except for one thing. Charley ran out the door and wouldn’t come back. Mr. White kept calling and calling, but Charley just wouldn’t come back. Mr. White is trying to good about it, but he’s very sad. I think he’ll be OK, and I think he’ll be a nice new resident. The other guys are trying to cheer him up, and he tries not to be too down. But you can tell not having Charlie is really bothering him.”

On Thanksgiving Day, friends from out of town came to visit Mark and his wife Ellen. The women were talking and preparing the traditional feast. Mark told Paul about Mr. White and Charley.

“He doesn’t have any family, and no friends either, except for Charley, so losing his cat is a huge loss. I know Charley is probably hanging around the vacant lot next door, and probably missing Mr. White just as much as Mr. White misses him. You know, Paul, it’s going to be a few hours before dinner. Would you be up for cruising over to a house on Delaware Street and see if we can find Charley? It would definitely make the old guy’s day.”

As they were driving to the old house, Paul asked how they would transport the cat if they were lucky enough to find it. “Actually,” Mark said, “contrary to my usual mode of operation, I’ve given that a moment of thought. In the trunk of my car is the team bat bag, still there from softball season. It’s an old seabag from when I was in the military. We could dump the bats and balls into the trunk, and throw the seabag over Charley, and run him out to Grandville in the bag.” They had a plan.

When they got to the house, who would you suppose was staring at them from the porch, as if he were waiting to be let in the door and fed after a night out exploring the vacant lot?  They approached, slowly, and calling, “Here Charley.” They had hopes of an easy capture, but that was not to be — the cat scampered off to the vacant lot. Not at full speed, and not far into the lot; only about 20 feet or so.

Mark told Paul to approach from the front. Paul walked slowly directly toward their quarry. Mark circled around from behind, and got as close as he dared. As Paul approached from the front, the cat made another escape move. Mark pounced. The cat was elusive, and didn’t cooperate. Mark grabbed him with both hands, which was not appreciated at all. “Hold that seabag open, we’ll get him in there,” Mark said, while being subjected to numerous scratches and a few good bites. This happened in seconds, and the bag was closed, amid hisses and yowls of protest.

Mark said the scratches were minor, and the bites really weren’t a big deal either, considering they’d see the smile when Mr. White was reunited with Charley. What a great way to make an old man happy on Thanksgiving. Then they’d go home for a little Detroit Lions football – hopes were always high for the Thanksgiving Day game — and a great meal. No doubt the wives would applaud Mark and Paul’s selfless efforts.

A short drive later, they were in Grandville. “Mr. White,” Mark stated with evident pride, “we have something for you that is going to make your day.” Mr. White knew the one thing that really would make for a perfect day. The AFC operators and the other residents were gathered in the living room, watching as the visitors presented Mr. White with an old canvas seabag, with something – something alive — in it.

Mr. White undid the clasp at the top so as to open the seabag, and then folded it down to reveal the contents.
“You’re not Charley!” cried Mr. White, crushed with disappointment.
“Keep him in the bag!” yelled Mark. He envisioned chasing a cat (the wrong cat) through the AFC Home. This was the only thing that worked properly; Mr. White pulled the sides of the seabag up quickly, containing “NotCharley” in the bag.

Mr. White was disappointed, of course, but he understood the effort that had been made on his behalf. Mark and Paul transported NotCharley back to the empty house next to the vacant lot. They opened the seabag to release the cat. It sauntered into the vacant lot, not looking particularly upset by the whole experience.

A little neighborhood girl, 9 years old or so, watched with great interest. She’d seen the two men earlier, and now they’d returned to release the cat that she’d seen them capture. She was overheard to say to one of her friends, “Those two crazy men are back, and this time they’re bringing back that stray cat.” She shook her head in puzzlement.

Mark and Paul got back to Mark’s house in plenty of time for some football on TV, and some snacks and refreshments before the big meal. The women thought Mark should have his forearms (and head) examined. He didn’t. They predicted he would suffer all sorts of infection from the stray cat’s claws and teeth. He didn’t.

The next day, the Friday after Thanksgiving, the sons of the AFC owners took Mr. White back to the house he’d rented for so many years, next to the vacant lot. Charley immediately came up to Mr. White, jumped into his arms, and purred all the way back to his new life in Grandville.