DATE: Monday, March 31, 1997                TAG: 9703280765
SECTION: LOCAL                   PAGE: B3   EDITION: FINAL 

TYPE: Column 

SOURCE: George Tucker 

                                            LENGTH:   78 lines

NEWSROOM MASCOT HAD A CHARGE ACCOUNT - AND AN OBITUARY

Today I'd like to memorialize Jack Scratch Brown, a small, tan, short-haired pooch of questionable ancestry, who was the canine goodwill ambassador of The Virginian-Pilot and The Ledger-Dispatch during the late 1930s.

The annals of dogdom are silent concerning Jack's earlier years, but it is a matter of record he first came to the attention of the newspaper personnel when the present building at 150 W. Brambleton Ave., was first occupied in October 1937. When he died of a canker of the ear some 10 years later, Jack was the only dog until that time that had ever received an obituary in the papers.

Unfortunately, I could not come up with the exact date of his death for this column, for the copies of Jack's mortuary notice have disappeared from the newspaper morgue. Even so, my private notes on Jack's career taken down from old-timers at the paper when I began my journalistic career in the 1950s, provide ample details concerning the time when Jack was the mascot of the Pilot and Ledger.

Before the erection of the newspaper building, Jack, who was then plain Brownie, hung out at Solomon's Cafe, a greasy spoon on nearby National Lane. Once work got under way on the building, however, it didn't take Brownie long to realize that the handouts he got from the workmen were gourmet fare in comparison with the grub dished up at Solomon's Cafe. And when the pile drivers got to work on the building's foundations, Brownie was suddenly in seventh heaven since the forest of cement pilings sticking out of the ground relieved him of the necessity of using his usual fireplug on Olney Road.

The opening of the new building coincided with Brownie's renaming. Everybody liked him, and when it was decided to add him to the staff he was rechristened Jack Scratch Brown in memory of Harrison W. Burton, an earlier reporter for The Virginian, known as ``Harry Scratch,'' who published a history of Norfolk in 1877.

From then on, Jack became a living legend. Once his fame began to spread, he was even honored by a Norfolk matron who knitted him a winter sweater complete with the words ``Jack Scratch Brown, Dog Mayor of Norfolk'' on one of its sides. Each year free-will offerings from the newsrooms also guaranteed him immunity from the dog catchers, and the licenses were always issued in his name.

Jack, whose usual nocturnal hangout was at the feet of the Pilot's city editor, always kept an ear cocked for the elevator. If passengers were children, he would lope out into the hall and, with tail wagging, conduct them back into the newsroom.

Jack's liking for ice cream was regularly indulged by his newsroom pals, who took him to a nearby pharmacy for a vanilla cone. He was also the only dog in Norfolk to have a charge account. When he got tired of handouts from the news staffs, he'd trot over to Saunders' Grocery across from the newspaper building and get a big bone or a steak, to be paid for later by his friends.

As further proof of his sophistication, Jack also had a fondness for beer, and when he felt a yen to tipple he scampered over to the Jefferson Ward Democratic Club for a bowl of his favorite brew.

Jack's shenanigans eventually became so famous he was known far and wide, and the yarns about him would take a staff of canine Boswells to record. Since I have to restrict my column to a certain length, however, one will have to suffice.

On one occasion, the military editor of The Pilot took Jack to the Norfolk Naval Station to introduce him to an admiral and his staff. Jack apparently was not impressed, for he absented himself from the event in short order. When his loss was discovered, there was a great to-do, and in no time the military police were scouring the base for him, fearing some bluejacket had shanghaied him. But no Jack could be found, and the reporter had to return downtown and prepare to face the music.

As he stood outside the Brambleton Avenue entrance of the newspaper building wondering how he was going to explain Jack's disappearance, a Yellow Cab pulled up. Reaching back, the driver opened the rear door and Jack leaped out.

``Here's your pal,'' the cabbie called out. ``I saw him heading south on Hampton Boulevard, and I recognized him. He looked fagged out, so I gave him a lift.'' ILLUSTRATION: Photo

Jack Scratch Brown

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