When my youngest brother was twelve (which would have made me twenty-one) my youngest brother finally convinced our parents to get a dog. A little Jack-Russel terrier with snow white fur. He was given the anthropocentric moniker of "Jake", after a band my brother occasionally listened to.
It soon became very clear that such a small syllable was insufficient to encapsulate the force of nature unleashed upon the family - "The Jake" insisted on a title (born of mangling the words "I'm walkin' the dog!" with "I'm walking Jake!" once too often), more befitting his self-declared grandiosity. He was The Jake, the one, the only, the definite article.
It has been said that the Jake was a dog who thought he was a cat - indeed, he at times contained a Louis XIV-like haughtiness more commonly associated with the feline species. He felt entitled to your attention, was covetous of your personal space, and treated your belongings as his own. He could fetch a stick, but certainly wouldn't bring it back. He expected his supper on time, and would accept nothing but the best. He wouldn't touch processed cheese, and turned up his nose at the healthy, low-fat dog-food prescribed by the vet. He would eat standard dog kibble only if it was dipped in gravy, and expected a sizable portion of every evening meal to be set aside for him. He was not much for walking, though he loved going out - stopping to sniff every blade of grass, every pavement nook and cranny, every acorn, pine cone, apple core, turd or blob of bubblegum he came across. Mostly he would just park himself on the front lawn and be content to watch the world go by. This constituted a walk. Often, he insisted on being carried places, even before his legs failed him and had a legitimate excuse. . . He really liked to be petted.
N
one of which is to say he lacked a dog's spirit or temper. In his early days, he was a little white lightning bolt that largely existed on the periphery of vision, his tangible existence only evidenced by the machine-gun pattering of little paws on hardwood, or sudden impact on the back of the legs. Though he wasn't much for walking, in those days he could run like a laser blast, and particularly liked chasing after cars known to be driven by members of the house-hold. He followed them with a single-minded determination that might have taken him to the end destination if not limited by the exhaustion of his handler.
Jack-Russel Terriers were originally bred to be hunting dogs, and the Jake certainly sought to do his ancestors proud, in braggadocio if not practical result: his method of barking madly in advance of the chase gave more than sufficient warning for any would-be prey. He had a high pitched, rapid fire yelp that could hit about 100 decibels. This yelp served as greeting, warning, alarm clock and possibly small talk - it was certainly his preferred means of communication. If he couldn't convince anyone to take him out on the lawn, he was content to sit at the window and watch the world for hours at a time. He was fiercely territorial, and woe-betide any passing pedestrian, dog, squirrel or tree leaf that dared make use of
his sidewalk. Often I would go to investigate the source of his indignation, and find
nothing there at all. I do wonder what he saw. . .
Vacuum cleaners were his particular nemesis - one needed only to drag it out of the closet to trigger paroxysms of furious barking. I'm sure the hunter in him thought he was confronting some great multi-tentacled beast, which he would take credit for slaying every time one pulled the plug. But any sort of tool or large object seemed to offend him - brooms, rakes, chairs - he would latch on to any one of these things and prevent their use until such time as he found some other distraction (usually food), leaving the intended task of said items irretrievably interrupted.
Office chairs were unquestionably his most bizarre quirk. Sitting on one was enough to draw the Jake's attention, and, following a barrage of barking, he would precede to press his nose against the chair legs right above the wheels, and just
drool on the thing. He could produce prodigious amounts of saliva, which would build up in rank pools on the floor. It was a behaviour he soon grew out of, but one I couldn't begin to understand - perhaps the stainless steel felt good on his snout.
Houseguests were another of the Jake's obsessions. Whether he loved company or hated it I could never quite tell. He would announce their presence with his customary air-raid siren, and challenge them at the door until he grew bored, or they bribed him with kielbasa. If he took to them, he would claim ownership of them, often by parking himself on their foot until such time as they decided move. Privileged guests had their own unique treatment: when he understood that my grandmother intended to leave, he would promptly go into the closet and fetch my great-grandmother (that is to say, my grandmother's mother's) slippers. The slippers were knit by my great-grandmother some time back in 1984 or some comparable year, and rarely if ever worn due to their uselessness on hardwood floor (and that our shoe-sizes have changed since 1984). He only ever fetched these items when Grandma was leaving. Did he on some level detect the connection? I don't know how he could have, but fact remains he
only showed interest in
those items when
that guest departed.
I'm not sure what the appeal was of sitting on someone else's feet; I suppose he was either being possessive or protective. There's no question he had a protective instinct in him. A cry of "Help Me Jake!" (especially from the window of a departing car) would always get him running, though what assistance he could render was never clear to either of us. The lake was where this instinct came out most strongly. If you jumped into the lake, he would follow you within seconds, and attempt to
shepherd you back to shore. He was an expert swimmer, though no one ever taught him, and he never encountered so much as a puddle outside cottage country, which was visited but once a year. With no doubt my best interests at heart, he would often leap off the dock and follow my canoe, no matter how far out I happened to be. His sense of duty would oblige him to follow until I were obliged to paddle up beside him, lift him out of the water and place him in the bough of the canoe, where he no doubt believed he had just rescued me.
The Jake's hunting instincts were never quite tamed; having failed to catch any squirrels, he contented himself with what he could find in the refrigerator, his crowning achievement being a brand new Maple ham, which he buried under some couch cushions. His ingenuity and athleticism in the pursuit of food knew no bounds - he could could open any fridge or cabinet, find his way onto any table. He could leap up a full metre in the air, snatch a piece of cake from the table and land again, like a Marineland dolphin. It was was probably the only time he could ever be accused of grace, and his clumping thumping stumbling gait certainly never lend itself to that adjective. He was known to make his way to the top of the dining room table and devour the contents of chocolate boxes, for which he would pay a steep price for later, but which seemed to do him no lasting harm - indeed, nothing he stole from the fridge, swiped off the table or found in the yard seemed to do him any lasting harm, as his NINETEEN YEARS would attest.
Nineteen years of rapid-fire yelps. Nineteen years of pitter-pattering paws. Nineteen years of burying his nose in the snow. Nineteen years of welcoming tongue and curious nose. Nineteen years. . .Healthier dogs with healthier diets haven't lasted half so long.
As the years drew on, and his hunting progress declined, the Jake turned to psychology. He became expert at manipulating his so-called owners into bending his dietary restrictions. He could be reasonably certain of suckering any one of us at any given time into slipping him a little piece of wiener or cheese. With a large family, it only needed to work once. After a while we stopped even trying to resist - when the conversion from dog years was done, and it became clear he would outlive Methuselah, it seemed pointless, almost perverse, to deny him.
He would slow down and quiet down, but still liked to sniff about the lawn, splash about the lake, and never stopped begging for treats. Several years ago he made his peace with the squirrels, and they coexisted quite harmoniously. As recently as this past fall he would up to the bridge and back with me. He needed to be carried in and out of the house, but set down on the lawn he'd get some of his bounce back. He never lost his curiosity. Till the very end he liked being scratched behind the ears, and always obligingly licked the hand that fed him.
Deep down, I don't suppose anyone thought he could go on forever. All the same, no one wanted that fateful day to come. One day he started having seizures, and that was that. He'd overcome all kinds of illnesses in the past, cancer and infections and tooth decay and whatever nature could throw at him, but this time there'd be no coming back. Even if they could have stopped the seizures, the treatment would effectively leave him brain-dead. Nothing could have been done.
In the end, it was not my decision to make, but I wouldn't have done things any differently. Nature chose the day - I'd like to think Jake himself chose the day. He went when it was right for him and not a minute earlier. I absolutely don't regret not rushing him. Again, it wasn't my decision, but if no one else in the family saw any reason to take that road before it was absolutely necessary - to jump the gun so to speak - I certainly didn't disapprove. Sometimes, society seems to me a bunch of Carlsons from
Of Mice and Men, all too anxious. I'm conscious of the idea of animal suffering. But I also know it's the instinct of every living thing to survive, to stay alive. Always ask yourself who's misery you're putting them out of.
The Jake was a survivor. He clung to life. When he got sick, we always tried the treatment first - it always worked, and he always rebounded. Until one day he didn't. I don't think he knew what death was, but I don't think for a minute he would have embraced it. I don't believe for a minute he resented us for making every effort and meeting every expense to make him well, and if he got another year, another six months, another week of walks, naps and snacks out of the deal, I don't believe for a minute he regretted it. He snatched up every possible minute, and finally went at a time of his choosing.
I still haven't set foot in the laundry room where he used to sleep. I don't want to see his empty bed, his untended dog dishes half-filled with untouched kibble. I don't want to see his little blankets covered in doggy paws and little bones. I don't want to see his leash hanging from the doorknob, but I don't want to see the doorknob without a leash hanging from it. I don't want to trip over another chewy toy (mainly ignored - shoes were preferable). I don't want to remove the poop-bags from my coat pockets because I don't want to know I won't be needing them.
Technically, I never got to say goodbye. I'm not too bothered about it because our every parting for quite a while had been something of a good-bye. To my mind dealing with loss largely means being at peace with the impermanence of everything. Failing that, there are always dreams of heaven. If the Jake finds himself in doggy heaven, I doubt it'll be too different from what he left behind. There will mountains of kielbasa and cheese, and no idiotic peoples going "uh uh". There will be legions of squirrels (who can still outrun him) sweeping across endless lawns, and miles and miles of sidewalk he can sniff at leisure. And should I find myself lucky enough arrive in such a place, I will be greeted by the thumping of little paws, a shrill little bark and a tugging at my hem. The meaning will be the same as it always was: "Where you been?"
Until then, so long pal. You were a pain. But you were my kind o' pain.
Perhaps you would. Maybe you'd be right. But I don't think I would.
