Jones joined the Keliuotis / Crandall family on April 24, 2005, when she was just six months old. The most gorgeous kitten in the Chicago Animal Control pound, Jones had spent the prior months on the streets. As such, even when provided a secure, loving home complete with the attention of two children and multiple warm beds, Jones demanded to spend at least part of her days outdoors. Attempts to lock her inside were futile and met with the distaste of a cat who would dart out any door the moment it opened to the outside. In the wilds of her leafy home neighborhoods, no mouse or bird or chipmunk was safe; each fall, cleared leaves revealed a wasteland of small animal carcasses scattered across the front lawn. For fun, Jones often carried her victims into her home; she single handedly livened up a children’s birthday party by depositing a still-alive dove in the center of the living room – a room housing a circle of small, now-screaming girls. On more than one occasion, a neighbor’s pool strainer was used to capture terrified birds flying through the house, attempting to flee their proud captor. Jones just looked on, amused, her work done.
Of course, Jones also enjoyed human delicacies like French fries and cheese popcorn, her days on the streets having molded her unique palate. She insisted upon fresh, cold water straight from the tap, and didn’t care if she blocked your attempts at washing your face or brushing your teeth (indeed, licking toothbrushes was both a favorite pastime anda minty snack).
Jones was independent and adventurous. If a neighbor left a car door or sunroof open, she’d jump inside – usually to the surprise of the vehicle’s owner. She stowed away on more than one family car ride. She equally enjoyed entering neighbor’s homes and garages. At her human parents’ wedding, she amused guests by jumping on top of the large tent in the yard and walking around, while guests watched her paw indentations from underneath. She often greeted strangers on the sidewalk, allowing them to pet her and sometimes doing a somersault or two (but only if she felt like it). During her time in Evanston, Illinois, she was a popular figure at nearby Bent Park, where she would hang out on a bench or in the playground, waiting for her humans to walk back home. Indeed, she loved taking walks with her humans, much to the amusement of neighbors, all of whom soon learned to recognize her and say, “Oh, that’s just Jones.”
They say cats have nine lives, but Jones had nineteen – and a criminal record. She spent two days in cat jail after allegedly biting a neighbor (she steadfastly maintained her innocence and claimed herself to be wrongly accused). She holds the family record for most visits to the emergency vet, for reasons ranging from fights with other neighborhood felines to getting her head stuck in a metal fence. She wasn’t above taunting local dogs, smugly sitting on their lawns or porches while they barked feverishly through the front window, happy in her knowledge that they were stuck inside and she was safe from their fury. She lived her life on the edge, and her humans have the vet bills to prove it.
Jones never met a vet tech she couldn’t intimidate; when her name was on the patient list, the staff at Berglund Animal Hospital in Evanston warmly greeted her with a smile anda pair of durable arm-length handling gloves. Anesthetics were often involved (both for her and the vet’s staff). When a particularly nasty scuffle with a local cat scofflaw named Oliver left Jones with a nasty infection on her right flank requiring stitches, Jones made removing the Cone of Shame her life’s work. The pain meds merely slowed her down. Jones would not be stopped.
She could be fussy and standoffish, or she might curl up on top of a human for the affection she occasionally sought. She talked back when annoyed. She enjoyed sitting in bathroom sinks; if you surprised her by walking in the room and turning on the lights, she would flatten her ears and cuss you out. She enjoyed lively conversations with the eldest human child, whose simple stating of her name “Jones!” would be met with a loud, mighty cat mew.
She enjoyed spending times with her humans as they did yard work or other outside chores, scoffing at their comparison of her to a dog. Jones took a particular liking to the human children, who gave her nicknames like “Bongos” and let her crash in their rooms. She spent more time in the youngest child’s crib than did the child. She had no interest in interacting with the family’s other cats; she never fought for the coveted alpha cat position, preferring time to herself or with her humans. She seemed to know she was more than “just a cat.” And she was. So much more.
Sadly, because nature is unfair, adored pets – even those as resilient and amazing as Jones – never live long enough. Sweet Jones passed away on August 8, 2018, after a brief illness. She remained tough until the end, taking a walk with one of her humans and her dog brother just a few days before she died. Her decline was quick and her passing blissfully peaceful. Her home rings empty with her absence.
Jones leaves behind a bereft family, including three feline and one canine sibling, all of whom checked on her during her final days. She also leaves behind her tan leather collar, the one she was wearing when her family chose her and brought her home, the one with the fluorescent green “If I am Lost” cat face-shaped tag, the one she wore every single day of her colorful, wonderful life, the one that now serves as both a sweet and painful reminder of a girl who lived her life exactly as she chose, and who will be missed more than she could ever know.
