Jinx me. As the club-dog, I had cause to evaluate my curious, whisker-twisting friend. I looked to Jinx and she purred.
(Image of Golpher and Jinx at clubhouse, outside, Golpher eyeing curious Jinx)
There was a day when pickle-faced Mr. Boyle was on the practice range.
“What?” He shook.
Jinx was in Mr. Boyle’s bright-red shag bag.
(Image of Jinx inside Mr. Boyle’s shag bag, popping up, on practice range)
Jinx scampered and watched. Mr. Boyle proceeded with swings.
“What the flying hippos?”
Exasperated, for the next 30 minutes Mr. Boyle shanked each of 50 balls right, to woods.
“I’m jinxed! I’ve been shafted!” he shrieked.
Turning, his eyes like flickering flames of a fire, he raised his flag, his 7-iron, while teeth ground.
“Cat, I don’t want to see you again.”
(Image of Jinx scampering on practice field as Mr. Boyle, upset, shanks and raises a club)
One Tuesday we were at the pool.
“Nice. Summertime, I love the water.” I worked lateral-hazard lifeguard June, July, and August. At the club pool I was busy keeping watch over kids and adults.
Wearing a two-piece, frilly pink bikini, wrinkled, fuddy-duddy Ms. Heyward was on the diving board as she would take a dip every so often.
“Meow.” Jinx walked the plank and approached from behind.
Ms. Heyward shook. “Ah, get back.”
(Image of Jinx walking diving board to Ms. Heyward)
“Splash!” Freaked-out, having previously seen a psychiatrist about cat hairs in her soup, in her clothes, Ms. Heyward tumbled.
“Meow.” Jinx looked on. We all did.
“Go away!” Ms. Heyward screamed. She bubbled water from lips for she’d lost her pink top. In the drink she was panther-mad. “Scat cat. I’ve been jinxed.”
Treading water, Ms. Heyward quickly grabbed a flexible banana float to wrap about her top. It didn’t matter that I dove to retrieve and hand her, her bikini piece. Humiliated, having been laughed at in a fun way, nevertheless she kept away from the no-putt pool for a whole month.
(Image of Ms. Heyward splashing in the pool, her top floating, yelling at Jinx on diving board)
Dr. Jan Smoltz was at a club dining table one evening. With monkey-like ears, her three children, Heinrik, Ibab, and Jean liked to pull on Jinx soft tail.
“Mom, this milk is sour. It’s so bad,” said Heinrik. “Can we have an orange fizzy?”
“I’d like grape,” said Ibab. “The milk is no good.”
Jinx had purposely positioned herself near Mrs. Smoltz.
“An unlikely story, madam,” Jinx followed. “Cook Bubba always checks beverages before serving. Milk does a body good.”
Mrs. Smoltz winked. “You’re right.” She swerved. “Children, you’ll drink every bit of your milk and not fool me. If not, be tortured at Walmart. I’ll drag you through the aisles.”
“No. Not that, mom. We’ll drink the milk,” said Heinrik.
The kids drank. Their faces soured like pickled, pumpkin-faced pirates. They didn’t like Walmart only because Mrs. Smoltz shopped for hours for groceries, because Mr. Smoltz then shopped for hours for tools as the kids weren’t allowed to play with the toys, rather, they were kept handcuffed to the shopping cart.
So, word got around. Someone poured vinegar in the milk. Smoltz children had been jinxed.
(Image of Jinx and kids around the breakfast table at club, children’s faces sour as pickles)