John "Otter" T Davis
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John's obituary
In Loving Memory of John T “Otter” Davis
“boss, sometimes i think that our greatest illusion is permanence.”
— Don Marquis, archy and mehitabel
John Davis, Jr.—known to those who loved him simply as “Otter”—lived a life defined by intellect, curiosity, and a strong creative drive. He approached the world with the mind of a scientist, the hands of an artist, and the heart of a man who believed deeply in the value of ethics and connection.
Born in Austin, Texas to Mitzi and John T. Davis, Sr., John spent his childhood in a farmhouse on the then‑remote shores of Lake Austin. His early years were shaped by roaming around the Texas countryside on his trusty steed, Peggy, by his parents, and by Ginger, his beloved Airedale, who once saved him from a rattlesnake and set the tone for his lifelong devotion to dogs. His childhood birthplace in Austin became the beloved pub The Dog and Duck, which made him very happy, and which he eventually sold to the pub's owners.
At Austin High School, John distinguished himself as both a performer and a behind‑the‑scenes force—acting onstage while also designing sets and costumes with precision and inventiveness. He studied theater at Baylor University, where he met Judith Kelly, whom he married in 1962. Together they joined the Peace Corps and spent two years in the Philippines, an experience that broadened John’s worldview for the rest of his life and earned the couple a letter of thanks from President John F. Kennedy. After traveling around the world, he returned to the United States and began a career as a film editor, winning two Clio Awards and working on projects that included the dog star Benji, continuing a dog related theme that ran throughout his life.
On 1/1/69 John and Judi welcomed their daughter Kerry, a central and cherished part of John’s life. John was a devoted father, supporting Kerry throughout her education and taking deep pride in her interests of singing, acting, and other creative pursuits, and in her career working in mental health in New York State. The two spoke daily. His support was unwavering, thoughtful, and enthusiastic for her many creative and professional interests.
In 1993, John met his beloved wife of nearly 30 years, Barbara Michaels, at a Thai restaurant on Lower Greenville after answering a Singles ad in the Dallas Observer. He later said he fell in love with her watching her walk into the restaurant. They married on January 19, 1996, exchanging rings made of niobium that John serendipitously made in his studio when they realized they didn’t have any to exchange. John informally adopted Barb’s children—Amy, Ann, and Matt—who embraced him in return and christened him “Otter” based on his playfulness and love of all types of shellfish. When Amy married Larry, Otter adopted him, too. Later, Otter continued the practice with their children--Stella, Sophie, Kate, Oliver, Grace, and Alexander John--who affectionately called him “Grampotter.”
John followed each grandchild’s interests closely, always wanting to know what they were learning, building, or imagining. He had a gift for noticing the small details in children — the way a question formed, the way a new idea lit up their faces. He tried to draw out whatever was most essentially them, reminiscent of a line from one of his favorite poems, A Child’s Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas, “the bells the children could hear were inside them."
John and Barb shared a lifelong love of creative projects. They bought a house together in Forest Hills and rebuilt it piece by piece, even installing a Japanese soaking tub designed by John. John’s creative pursuits were wide‑ranging: jewelry making, pottery, carpentry, visual art, refurbishing vintage Birkenstocks, restoring Japanese knitting machines, and tattooing. He designed his own tattoos based on Japanese dragons. When Otter tattooed an orange rind with Barbara’s name and framed it, everyone knew their relationship was for keeps.
To say that John was an enthusiastic cook would be the understatement of all time. He approached food the way he approached a master craft: by researching, experimenting, and refining. His batterie de cuisine included a wide range of knives, specialized pans, spices, and tools from all over the world. He loved oysters in all forms, steaks prepared in many ways—especially when stuffed with oysters and wrapped in bacon—crisp butter lettuce with grapefruit and avocado, and Asian dishes of every kind. One of the last dishes he perfected through careful iteration was shoyu tamago, soy‑marinated eggs. And for dessert, there was always his favorite, Lammes pralines.
With his great baritone voice, John loved to laugh and to make others laugh. He was a storyteller from the time he woke up until the last light of the evening. Barb liked to say that in the mornings, before he launched into a new discovery from the newspaper, she would ask, “Have I made eye contact yet?”
John felt things deeply, and extended kindness without calculation. Dogs remained a constant presence throughout his life: Ginger and Darwin, the Airedales, were always by his side; Molly and Pepper, the terriers, always had an affectionate lick for him, sitting next to him on the couch.
In his later years, when he required nursing home care, John adapted. He organized a daily card game among residents and was elected President of the Resident Council, continuing to build community wherever he was.
In a final act of kindness and the pursuit of knowledge, John donated his body to science.
John is survived by a family who loved him deeply and who carry forward his curiosity, his creativity, and his way of meeting the world with both logic and play. Although he is gone from our everyday lives, leaving “not a rack” behind—yet the brilliant trace of his presence remains.
“Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud‑capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.”
--The Tempest, Act IV, Scene 1
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