Family Life 1967 — Part III: Animals and Accusations

By Cliff Potts
Bay Bay City, Leyte, Philippines — October 29, 2026

This is a serialized installment from the autobiography of Cliff Potts.

The Kitten

One night we heard a kitten crying outside the basement window.

It was a small golden tabby, perhaps eight weeks old. Its jaw had been broken in a fight. We brought it inside, wrapped it in a towel, and gave it water with an eyedropper. It died quietly.

Months later, neighborhood kids pounded on our door demanding their cat back. They meant Morris — a large tomcat who roamed the block and was fed by multiple households.

Someone called the police.

The officer arrived, listened, and said, “Yeah, I know that cat. We feed him too.”

That ended the dispute.

It also reinforced something: when something went missing, we were the likely explanation.

The Newt

For my tenth birthday, my mother took me to Animal Kingdom on Milwaukee Avenue. It was a large pet store known for its scale and for Chelveston, the duck associated with Ray Rayner and Friends.

I chose a newt.

It lived in a glass bowl on the hallway dresser with a small floating island. One day it disappeared. Months later, while moving furniture, we found it behind the dresser — dried and flattened.

We disposed of it and ended the experiment.

Shana

Geri came home with a puppy — part German Shepherd, part something leaner. As she grew, she resembled a coyote with domestic manners.

Her name was Shana.

A new landlord had purchased the building and objected to the dog. One afternoon he physically blocked my mother on the staircase during an argument.

My mother responded by deciding we would leave.

We moved into an apartment above Long Food Market — known locally as the IGA. In Chicago, first names of landmarks remain permanent.

Shana became my responsibility.