jack is a good dog

The other day, I was introduced by a friend/blog reader as an “animal nut” who has a “horrible dog.”

I’ve known people a lot nuttier about animals than I, but “animal nut” is a description I can live with. Compared to some, I’m loony, I guess.

But I feel bad for Jack, being called horrible. That’s my fault. My friend has never met Jack but I’ve told such terrible tales about him on this blog. My friend was clear that the kind of behavior I described would never be tolerated in her home. Her husband agreed while a large cat practicing lap yoga inserted a foot in his nose.

I promise Jack isn’t all bad. But writing about Jack’s wicked ways is simply more entertaining for everyone than if I wrote about the cute face he puts on when he thinks it will shake loose a treat. Or how, when you open the back door, he leaps to his feet from a dead sleep and streaks across the yard with purpose. I wasn’t sleeping! I’m on the job! Or how he climbs into my lap—as much as can fit in my lap, anyway—when I sit on the living room floor and brush him.

Jack is the Rorschach test of dogs. Some people look at him and see a ferocious beast, some want to throw their arms around his furry neck. (Not advised for anyone but me and Tom.) But either way, the real Jack is a chowhound and a goober and far from the noble beast I thought he was when we adopted him. When push comes to shove, he’d rather snack than fight.

He’s not a sociable dog but that’s partly a breed trait. (He appears to have Australian shepherd in him.) We’ve had lots of visitors in and out and if they do as we say and ignore Jack, he moons around them like they’re his long-lost loves. Try to pet him and he shows teeth. That’s just his little neurosis. Poor Jack is conflicted.

But he has changed. Really changed. Granted, he still doesn’t like his back feet touched and never will. We touch them sometimes just to annoy him. Mostly he just gives us a dirty look and leaves the room. He’s much more tolerant of tail touching these days, and with liberal application of weenie bits at the front end will let me vigorously brush his back end. He stills snap sometimes, but he doesn’t have his heart in it. It’s a method of communication for him. I bat him on the nose and he gives me puppy dog eyes.

Jack doesn’t lunge at fenced dogs anymore. His senses are alert as we pass his archenemies but no matter how they try to rile him, he just hustles past. He still barks at dogs on TV but that’s just cute.

There’s even one little dog on our evening route that Jack adores. He insists we pause at this yard every evening. If the little dog is asleep, we wait until he wakes up and toddles up a steep hill to greet us. He and Jack sniff each other and wag and swap a little urine.

We’ve been visiting this doggie for months. The dog often invites Jack to frolic along the fence. He assumes the playful doggie position then bounces in circles. Jack has mostly looked puzzled. It appears he never learned how to play with other dogs. But the other night, for the first time, he actually attempted a clumsy frolic of his own. I got all choked up.

Jack is playful in his own way. Sometimes we play a game I like to call “stick.” We go outside and I say “Where’s your stick Jack?” in that excited voice we were taught to use to engage him. He looks at me all happy and then bounds off into the woods and vanishes. I go back inside.

Tom has better luck with stick. They play each morning and Jack will sulk if Tom tries to cheat him out of his game. I think he’ll even return the stick to Tom a few times. When Jack tires of the game, he settles down to chew the stick into toothpicks.

We’re pretty satisfied with ol’ Jack. I mean, it does get on our nerves that he never closes the back door behind him, after butting it open with his giant head a million times day to stroll inside and see what we’re up. And it would be fun if he liked car rides so we wouldn’t have to lift his large ass into the car every time we want to haul him somewhere. And his plodding pace at the end of our walks makes me a little crazy every night. And I’d rather he didn’t wake me every morning barking his fool head off at squirrels. And he’s gloomy when it rains. We suspect seasonal affective disorder.

I suppose my affection for Jack reflects my allegiance to the underdogs of the world. Jack came from a troubled home. But he's conquered many of his demons and he’s a good boy. Yes, he is.