A life well-loved

The first time I saw Jack, I knew he was going to be trouble.

It was at an adoption event in a park in Redford in the late summer of 2010. He was in a cage, soaking up the sun, his head slightly tilted up – smiling, it looked like, but there was a hint of mischief in that smile, too.

“Are you sure?” I asked my wife, Lisa. “I heard they were a handful.”

She nodded. “He’s the one.”

So we asked if we could walk him around the park – and he quickly ran my tired old ass up and down the field at what I later learned was nowhere near his top speed. Panting, I looked for the nearest ATM. He sat in my lap all the way home – sort of – and the rest was history.

Jack’s first nickname was Lickety-Split because he would jump up on the coach – or chair, or bed, or whatever – lick your cheek and dash off right away. There were many more nicknames to follow in the 12+ years we were lucky enough to share with him: Captain Jack; Jack, Jack the doggie maniac; Action Jackson; Puppernut; Pum Pum and a whole lot more.

We walked everywhere. Back then, I was out of shape. I had some kind of nagging hip issue that slowed me down. I had a bit of a belly and I got winded easily. Jack took care of all that. It was not uncommon for us to walk two hours a day on the weekends, an hour in the morning and an hour at night, and he was usually ready for more (except during a year-long period shortly after the Michigan legislature allowed year-round fireworks someone set off a brick of firecrackers on a Sunday morning in February and it took me several months to coax him back outside). I think he thought of me as Walker. Even lately, with George Michael pulling the way, Jack trotted along, keeping up as best he could.

Jack’s vet summed him up on his first visit, with five words that described him perfectly: “What a good-natured fella.”

He would welcome anyone into the house, but wasn’t fond of anyone leaving. He liked other dogs – especially larger ones; I think he measured himself as their equal. If anyone wanted to pat his head or scratch his ears while we were out exploring, he’d be happy to oblige.

As I look back at all the difficult periods over the past 12 years – and there have been a lot: the loss of my dad, my mom, grandma, grandpa, almost Henry, my job, Lisa’s grandma and mom – I know I was lucky to have Jack at my side. My dog. My buddy. Always willing to walk, to sit, be a hug pillow or whatever.

The mischief was there, too. He was a smallish dog, but strong. He would pull on his leash when I was in midstride and threaten to topple me (he loved doing this when I was on ice). He pooped in high places – on landscaping rocks, or logs, steps – as if he was proud of all his deposits. He chased geese – until he cornered one; he gave them a wide berth after that.

We had our little rituals. I would talk baseball with him and, based on his silence, think he agreed with me.

“Jack,” I would say to him frequently, “you’re a dog. Don’t get me wrong: you’re a good dog. I mean, a real good dog. Maybe even the best of all dogs – I can’t say for sure, because I haven’t met them all, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

And I would sing to him, too.

“You’re my doggie, you’re my doggie,
You’re my liiiiiiittle lifelong friend;
I hope you know I always loved you,
From the beginning to the end.”

We know very little about Jack’s life before he was rescued. He was found wandering the streets, weighing only 11 pounds. They guessed he was three years old, but I think he was a bit older than that.

I only know that we gave him the best happy ending we could. He traveled all around with us, sniffing out trails, fighting waves on Michigan lakes, dipping his toes in rivers and ponds, checking out waterfalls – even though I had to carry him down (and back up) all 116 steps at Tahquamenon Falls. And he knew love, every minute of every day.

I was right all along. He was trouble. He was a handful. And we loved every bit of it, and every bit of him. He truly was the best of all dogs.

Rest In Peace buddy.