My Ol' Jackers

This week we’re writing about the canine loves of our lives. Mine, hands down, was Jack. Jack was a purebred golden retriever with a pedigree, purchased from a breeder in Ohio in April 1994. A little of my history with dogs before we go any further…When I was little we lived in Pennsylvania (State College to be exact, Go Nittany Lions) and was sent to bed sometimes before dark, and I couldn’t fall asleep yet. I would get out of bed, stand in the window in my room and whisper “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight. I wish for a puppy.” I must have done that for over a year, when I was about 6. A few years later, when we lived in Indiana, my best friend Erin’s family had Akitas. Big, furry, intimidating Akitas. They were trained and well-behaved, but I was scared of them. One of my adventures with Erin involved going into a neighbor’s yard to pet their dog, which was on a tether. The dog took a chunk out of my knee with his teeth and I had to be taken to the emergency room for tetanus shot—talk about unforgettable! After that I was really not very comfortable around big dogs. I never did get a puppy in childhood, although at one time, my mom’s coworker gave us her used dog, Tabby, an obese old mutt, who went back to the owners when we moved away after my parents’ divorce. Fast forward to 1994, when I realized that if I raised my own big dog from a puppy, I wouldn’t be afraid any more. After asking everyone we knew which type of dog we could get that was a great family dog and wouldn’t be likely to bite anyone, we settled on a golden retriever. I found Jack in the classifieds, the last one to be picked out of a litter of 11 pups. I took Brian, who was 10 at the time, and as soon as we saw him it was all over—how could we leave him?! He was 10 lbs and 8 weeks old when we brought him home. Don’t you love little puppy garlic breath? Jack grew like a weed, 10 pounds a month until he reached 70 or 80 pounds, at one point eating 6 cups of puppy chow a day (happy poop scooping). He was a bundle of energy, and he cried every night for the first week. He was a destructive puppy, tearing up the linoleum floor in the laundry room, which actually was helpful in hastening the installation of the new floor I wanted. He pulled the crown molding from around the door, leaving nails exposed. He tore wallpaper off the kitchen wall and ate the drywall underneath (mineral deficiency?). He dug relentlessly in the yard, deepening the same trench day after day. Did I mention the vacuuming that goes along with a golden retriever? Hello, Dyson! He easily learned the invisible fence and only crossed it when there was someone he just had to greet—or chase, in the case of his arch rival, Samson, the malamute. My neighbor Julie once said, “did you know that your dog is a people person?” And he was mommy’s boy—hiding behind me when Glenn scolded him, he would stick his head out and sass back! He was my faithful companion, and my heart broke with the diagnosis of leukemia. I hoped the day would never come, but I chose the last selfless act of love there was to prevent his suffering. March 17, 2011 will be 5 years he has been gone, and I still cry when I read the Rainbow Bridge. I hope to God he will be there when I get there. To me, there will never be another dog like Jack—the dog I waited over 20 years for, the one who taught me to love big dogs.