Earlier this year, I had the pleasure of getting to visit and tour the Baldwin County Animal Shelter for a story I wrote after the county had taken over the shelter from the Health Department.
We were there to see what changes had been implemented and what exactly was going on for the animals within those cinder block walls.
Having arrived with my publisher promptly at the agreed upon time, we were told that the shelter director had been called out to deal with a situation involving an escaped animal, but that she would likely be back within a short amount of time.
We stood there in the lobby on the front office for what stretched into a good 15 to 20 minute period, making small talk with one another and watching county residents come in and out with various requests or pet adoptions.
Being a journalist (which is nicer to say about myself than that I’m one of the nosiest people ever to walk the planet), my curiosity eventually got the best of me and I asked young woman at the front desk exactly what was holding up the shelter director for so long.
I was not prepared for the reply.
“She’s helping catch an escaped goat over at Catfish Gerald’s.”
For such a short sentence, there was so much to unpack there.
Using my skills as a reporter, I extracted more of the story from her.
“Well, I took a call and it was someone in Marlow saying someone’s goat had escaped and was on their property and they asked us to come and get him and try to find where he belongs.”
As I live not terribly far from the largely rural Marlow community, this part of the story tracked with me.
“So, I asked the man his name and he said Catfish Gerald.”
Having lived near the Marlow community for several years now, this also didn’t seem terribly out of place. Though it was doubtful this man’s Christian name was Catfish, that particular sobriquet could have come from many places.
Perhaps Mr. Gerald liked fishing for catfish. Maybe he used to have big fish fries at his house or used to own a restaurant known for its amazing catfish dinner. Maybe he even looked like a catfish, long whiskers and a sad, droopy mouth.
It’s Marlow - all things are possible.
As I pondered the nature of how Catfish Gerald got his name, a call came in and the young lady answered it.
She immediately began laughing and remained in that fit until she hung up the phone.
Again, I had to ask what caused the outbreak of mirth.
“Well, we got the goat and she’s on her way back. But, we might have messed something up.”
I prompted her to continue.
“See, she went to the house and asked to speak to Mr. Catfish Gerald.”
Well, of course.
“The guy there looked at her really weird and said that there is no Catfish Gerald.”
How could this be?
“Apparently, we just misheard his name - he’s actually Pat Fitzgerald.”
We all had a good laugh and Gina soon returned to give us a great tour of the facility.
But, I must be honest, to this day, I’m slightly disappointed that we don’t give to live in a world where there’s a guy out in Marlow, ever vigilant against roving barbarian invader goats, named Catfish Gerald.
Maybe one day, dear readers. Maybe one day.
