Good Boy

The first time I saw him, I thought he was the skinniest living dog I’d ever seen. His Snoopy nose can pick up the slightest scent. On a walk he always wants to check all the messages and leave a reply. He’s a good boy.

His foster mom had a horse. She took him on five-mile trail runs, so he came to us already in condition to run. He became my running buddy and we ran together for the next six and a half years. He knew how to sit and stay—well mostly—and lie down, but I taught him commands to turn left, right, and straight. He was a good running partner. We never got tangled up.

With consistency and patience, he learned not to be afraid of irrigation systems that came on as we ran by. Made me wonder what he had endured in his puppyhood, especially since he still shies away and occasionally yelps if you raise your foot underneath his belly to give him a scratch.

On first impression at the shelter I was concerned that he wouldn’t attach to us and show affection. Then, I walked into the family room the first night we got him and found him stretched across Kent on the floor, snuggled up as close as he could get.

We crated him the first night, not sure if he was a chewer. It distressed him so much. He didn’t cry, didn’t even whimper, but it made him anxious and it took days for him to relax again. I think he was afraid he had displeased us and we were punishing him.  We never put him in a crate again. He’s always been a good boy.

When my mom came to stay with us in her last months, he was a good companion, even though she did bring a temperamental feline with her. Jack proved to be a cat whisperer.

He traveled with us when I took Mom home for two-week visits. He was always well-mannered and never complained. Just went wherever we asked him to and always looked out for us.

While he usually minds, he’s not averse to darting off on walkabout if you don’t keep your eye on him in the yard. Our neighbors are acquainted with this habit and “Jack! Come back!” is not an uncommon sound in the neighborhood. We do try to keep him close. But he’s so good otherwise, I guess he’s allowed one character flaw.

My friend had a black cat named Andy. I called him “The Invisible Cat” because when I used to care for him during their travels, he never made an appearance. I’d come in, scoop the evidence that he did, in fact, exist, add food and water to his bowls, and leave without any sighting of him. One day I took Jack with me. I looked up and amazingly there stood Andy. Jack, the cat whisperer, had coaxed him out.

After that, I always took Jack with me. In Andy’s later life when he developed health issues, we’d find him sleeping in his bed by the window. Jack would run in and check on Andy first thing every time we’d stop by. They became buddies.

Jack always wants to be close to his people. He takes good care of us. Kent worked from home for a while during the pandemic so we set up an office for him in one of the bedrooms. Every morning, Jack would park himself on the floor in the hallway right outside that bedroom door. That way he could keep an eye on Kent and also on me as I worked in the front of the house.

He’s a good traveler and we usually take him with us, but on the occasional trip when he can’t go he stays with Andy’s family, my friend and her husband. They love him too. He always feels safe with them. He knows he’ll get lots of love and walks in the woods with all kinds of new smells. He’s always a good boy, well, most of the time. He does like to sleep on furniture and that sometimes gets him into trouble.

We think he was about a year old when we got him and he’s been ours for eleven years. When we adopted him, he had demodex and even after it cleared up he had itchy skin. Allergies have kept him taking one medication or another every day for as long as we’ve known him.

Last spring, he started to lose his hair and was more itchy than usual. Our veterinarian diagnosed him with Cutaneous Lymphocytosis, or CL, which is a precursor to lymphoma. His prognosis was a 0.5 to 1.8-year survival. Our buddy was a sick puppy. He got lots of new meds and he’s taking those like he always has, sitting obediently and wagging his tail in anticipation of a treat. He’s such a good boy.

In February, lymphoma reared its ugly head. He’s been so good. No complaints, even when he’s had to wear a doggy diaper and the cone of shame. I got him a Captain America T shirt. He’s a superhero.

His good days still outweigh his bad ones. He’s content to amble around the block in the morning and spend the rest of the day sleeping on the cool floor watching the cats go by. His brown eyes are getting cloudy and he’s going gray. His joints are rickety and sometimes he sighs as he drops down to settle on the hard floor. But he’s such a good boy. He’s content to just be with us, watching over us, making sure his people are okay.

Jack, you’ve hiked mountains, run races, and gone on countless road trips and adventures. You are a good boy. I’m so happy you chose us to be your people.

For Jack

He sprawls beside me
stretched across the hardwood
seeking relief in the coolness
breathing like he did in his younger days
after one of our morning runs.
The gray around his Snoopy nose
speaks of races run, balls caught,
and anxious hours of waiting for his people to return.
You were gone so long. I missed you!

The trust in his brown eyes
clouded with age
looks up into mine
content to just be beside me,
my hand on his head,
my buddy.

If you want to dream and drift
away to that happy place
where you can run and play
and chase all the kitties you want,
I’ll sit here beside you while you wait.

I know it won’t be much longer
and oh, how I’ll miss you.

Jack, we love you buddy.


Blessings