"The cat with eyne of burning coal. . ." says Shakespeare in the third act of
Pericles. No burning coals for Jack. His are a more the bard's "green and yellow melancholy" (to match his tepid temper and white goatee). But Angel dotes on him --- has to hug and love him far beyond his worth. Jack is the dog she never had --- he is pawed, played with, poked and provoked without one mild meow. At most, he'll slink away in disgust.
I told Angel yesterday, "Jack's an old man now. His play days are over. You need a puppy." To be continued . . .