So what did they do? They went to get a puppy, of course.
They drove out to a farm in the middle of nowhere, planning to "just look," but with a kennel, puppy food, and a bunch of plush squeaky toys in the back of the truck. Just in case. And then they were led across a field to a fenced-in area where twelve tiny golden faces peered, grinning, and furry little bodies pawed, stumbled, wiggled, wagged, and yipped. And they, these two, were done in.
There was one puppy in particular. A fat one, redder than the others, with a big splotch of milk on his face. He spared the couple barely a glance and a halfhearted tail wag while trotting relentlessly after his mama, stepping over and on top of his brothers and sisters with his oversized puppy paws.
The couple looked at the other puppies. They were enchanted by all of them. But the plump little penny-colored guy, it kept coming back to him.
That was our Jack.
Well, his name was going to be Billy. I don't know why; I just thought it was a cute name for a puppy. But I let Steven talk me into Jack, after making him swear on his life that he would never, EVER say the name in his awful Jack Nicholson impression.
So instead of Billy, we took home Jackson Tide.
He sat on command the first day home, at 6 weeks old. Three times with cheese as a reward, and he had it down pat. He chewed shoes, as any good puppy will, and sat stubbornly and refused to move when I tried a leash on him for the first time. He was convinced he was our alpha, that little red ball of fur. He was a growler and a nipper, and I once cried to Steven that I thought he was going to be mean forever. "Have you ever met a mean golden retriever?" he asked.
We took him on drives with us and he sat in my lap and panted out the window at passing cars. People smiled and pointed. He was beautiful, my first baby, and I was so proud.
He grew. And grew. And grew some more. At his biggest he was 120 pounds, and he still tried to be a lap dog. We got him a companion, his full-blooded sister Charlie, when he was a year old. When we brought her home he was instantly obsessed. She would take a couple of steps and he would put his big nose under her back end and flip her over. She was his best toy EVER.
When we came home from the hospital with Alex, we put his carrier down on the floor and let the dogs check him out. Jack sniffed at him for a couple of minutes, did the canine equivalent of shrugging his shoulders, and went about his business.
As Alex got bigger, he became more interesting, from a dog's perspective. He was a toddling goldmine of dropped bits of food, sticky tasty fingers, and spilled puddles of juice. He threw balls and sticks, and sometimes sat on Jack's back like he was his very own custom-sized pony. If Jack got annoyed or sick of the exuberant toddler attention, he got up and moved. My mean puppy had turned into a patient, lazy, sweet, dog who wouldn't hurt a flea.
One night I was half asleep when Steven burst into the bedroom and said, "Jack's having a seizure!" I was so disoriented, I said, "Jack who?" The seizures went on pretty frequently over the next few years, and he was put on phenobarbital to control them. He developed skin allergies and was plagued by dry skin that drove him (and us) insane. He became an obsessive paw licker. If I had a nickel for every time I've said, "Jack, stop licking!" over the past few years, I'd be able to retire. Always an Eeyore type, he's been our mopey but content counterpoint to his sunny, anxious, eager-to-please sister. His vet once told me he had "unusually intelligent eyes," and I think he was right. I think Jack understands a lot. I think Jack is a man trapped in a dog's body.
These days his favorite things to do are eat and sleep. He noses the garbage can open and woe to us if there's food within his reach. He constantly steals Katherine's breakfast and waits until no one is looking before polishing off any food Charlie has left in her bowl. He's stealthy. He's afraid of thunder, popcorn, and suitcases. He demands affection by shoving his head up under your hand until you pet him, preferably scratching behind the ears and under the chin. He licks toes. Anybody's toes. A lot.
Yesterday I got a call from our veterinarian. "Jack has cancer." It's an aggressive type, and it's going to spread. We don't really know how much time we have left with our big bear. But no matter how long it is, it's not going to be long enough.
I hope we've given him a good life. I hope he knows that we love him even though (and maybe a little bit because) he drives us up the wall sometimes. I hope he knows he'll never be forgotten, and that he's irreplaceable, that he broke that mold into a million pieces.
Most of all I hope he can enjoy the rest of his time here, being spoiled rotten. Because right now, he's just Jack. He's licking his paws and wagging his tail and nosing into the trash can and sneaking sticks and gumballs in from the yard to munch on and leave in woody piles all over my clean floor. He's happy, in his Eeyore way. For now we'll just spend a lot of time scratching those floppy ears, sniffing the top of his head (which always smells inexplicably like roast turkey), and telling him he's the best boy.
I told him to tell us when he needs to go. He looked at me with those unusually intelligent eyes, and I'm pretty sure he understood.
We'll be devastated. And then we'll heal. And one day it won't hurt quite so much to remember that beautiful, stubborn, "mean" little red puppy and the pushy, sweet, funny, maddening, mischievous, lazy, strong-willed, affectionate, loving, patient, loyal, unforgettable buddy he became.
It's never long enough.
Hilary Stanton Zunin
