It’s hard to remember what life was like before Jack, but lately, I’ve been thinking about the turn of events that led me to him + I’ve decided to tell that story, here.
Back in 2008, when I lived in Houston, I started daydreaming about maybe getting a dog + poking around online. The Alvin Animal Shelter placed Craigslist ads weekly on Mondays, featuring their “Dog of the Week”. I’d half-heartedly monitored their updates for months, telling myself (and anyone who’d listen) if I ever saw a Golden Retriever come up for adoption, I’d give them a call. She’d need to be full-grown, potty trained, well-behaved with soft blonde hair and even softer eyes. She’d motivate me to run by bringing me her leash at the same time each day and share my popcorn with me on movie nights. She’d be gentle, kind, loving + soft. She’d listen to me. (Like, really listen to me.) And, afterwards, most importantly, she wouldn’t leave or make me sleep alone.
“I’ll just know her when I see her,” I told my boyfriend-at-the-time, who’d roll his eyes at my “Lassie fantasy”. He seemed to delight in reminding me that “dogs are a lot of work.” In hindsight, he was probably planning an exit for the very day I brought home another bitch for him to manage.
I’d even gone so far as to visit the exclusively-for-Golden-Retrievers rescue, figuring I’d increase my chances of finding my girl if I worked directly with a non-profit who specialized in the breed. The Golden Retriever Rescue was a red bricked suburban dream. At this no-kill shelter, each dog had its own bed, was bathed regularly and were doled out treats in perpetuity. After a brief interview and a walk through the sleeping quarters, I was matched with a 3-year old named Cali who was playing in the backyard. Brandishing a leash to “get acquainted away from the others,” I clipped it onto Cali’s collar just inside the gate. The moment the gate was opened, Cali spastically lunged for freedom and proceeded to “walk” me around the block as I trailed along behind shamelessly attempting to “assert dominance”. My then-boyfriend’s words burned in my chest. “Dogs need an Alpha, not a Beta, Hillary..”
As we humped around the block awkwardly, not at all the picture of my fantasy, I decided he was probably right and returned to surrender the leash, asking the kind ladies for “some time to think it over”. (Spoken like a true Beta: too conflict averse to tell the painful truth which was; I was, in fact, too much of a doormat to be a dog mom, according to my boyfriend.)
But, fantasy is an intoxicating drug + I continued to indulge in the weekly search, however privately. Most weren’t retrievers, which made it easy, but something about the last Dog of the Week had caught my eye. “Max” was photographed seated in the passenger seat of a car, wearing a bright red collar around his monochromatic neck + seemingly smiling. Not at all my type. More of a Coppertone commercial kind of dog, but for some reason, on that morning: He was cute enough to call about.
“Hi, my name’s Hillary. I’m calling about the Dog of the Week, Max. He’s pretty cute. I could probably come and see him this Saturday. Is he still available?.”
“He is, but not for much longer. Max is set to be put down today because he’s been here a while. That’s why we advertised him last week. If you want to see him, you need to get here by 2pm.”
I wondered about all the other past Dogs of the Week. Had they found homes? Something told me they probably weren’t all being awarded treats in perpetuity and sleeping on cushy dog beds from Marshall’s. I guess that’s reserved for the pretty blonde bitches of the world.
“Well, don’t put him down, YET,” I stammered, “I’m on my way.”
I made the trip one hour south to Alvin in record time + walked into an aluminum barn of a shelter sweltering in the Texas sun. The lobby smelled of fear (veterinary medicine and piss). After signing some papers saying something about not suing even if I was attacked, the attendant buzzed us into a chain link maze of concrete floors and mystery puddles. The cages held sad wimpers, empty eyes, depressed heaps, multiple mystery puddles and more than one broken looking heart. I felt sick, anxious and inept.
One spectacularly large Pit mix along the first row barked so loudly when I looked at him it landed like a punch in the stomach. “BOOF.” I don’t speak dog, but I knew what that meant...he wants the fuck out of this place. As we passed by his barks grew more urgent and non-stop. “BOW-WOWOWOWOWOWOW” he cried to me. “Ah-WOOO” the older, silver faced hound next to him replied. This resulted in the entire cavernous barn erupting in a chorus of howls. Each lonely dog calling for his pack. The sound rattled through me, shaking something loose. I wanted to cry. I shuddered, half ready to run through there and open every single kennel, myself.
Max’s crude cage was towards the back since he’d been there the longest. He sat quietly in his familiar red collar and looked up knowingly through soulful, calm eyes, almost as if he’d accepted his fate. He silently glanced in my direction, but clearly didn’t seem to expect us to stay for long. The attendant fashioned a cheap nylon rope into a choke collar and slipped it over his neck, but Max didn’t flinch or move until the attendant jerked him to attention. “Alright, buddy, let’s go.”
Max seemed a little big to be a Jack Russell Terrier, as advertised. He had a funny shape: long body, short legs, elfin ears. More Corgi than Terrier if you asked me. But, then again, what do I know about dogs? I asked where Max had come from and why he was there, “We found him roaming the streets of Alvin. Somebody called in so we went out and picked him up.”
In the Lobby, the attendant asked, “You two want to go around the block or something?” I agreed that sounded like a good idea, so we made our way outside. Once we were alone, I stopped, unsure of which way to go, looking for some sort of markers / indicators of where to return, shortly. I feared Max would take off running like all the others and drag me through some unfamiliar neighborhood before I had the chance to get my bearings. While I pondered, Max plopped his black and white spotted hind end down and looked up at me as if to say, “You know, honestly, I’m cool if we chill right here.”
I exhaled, thankful to have a moment to think.
Establishing eye contact I mustered all the Alpha confidence I could. “Alright, Buddy, listen. We’re going to walk around the block together + if you listen to me and walk real good on the leash, you get to go home with me, okay? But, if you are an asshole and pull me by the leash or don’t listen to me, I’m gonna have to leave you here. Do you understand?” He blinked, I shrugged + decided we’d go right.
At the first corner, Max stopped and looked up, telepathically saying, “Which way now, Boss?” I smiled. “Let’s go through this light and then make a right, sound good?” He obliged. As we cleared the second block, we made our turn without hesitation. Now we were hitting a stride.
I noticed his pace quickened to keep up with mine, but not once did he step in front of me or pull. He stayed beside me, matching my stride and glancing up from time to time to see if I was watching him. Of course I was. His gait was almost horselike in the rear. A trot, by most standards. I laughed at the way his little black booty bounced humorously, while his tail stood proud. The further we walked away from that place, the more pep he got in his step. The white tip of his tail seemed to wave, cheerfully. “You’re doing so good on the leash, Max.”
By the second turn, I’d already made up my mind, so I asked him as we continued back towards the shelter, “Do you wanna go home with me?” His lockstep pacekeeping my only indicator of a “yes”, I decided we’d silently agreed. My heart soared as we floated back. I was determined to break Max out of that scary place, once and for all.
________
“You did what?” my then-boyfriend chided.
“I adopted him today,” I proudly stated. “They called him Max at the pound.”
“Jesus, Hillary. That has got to be the ugliest damn dog I’ve ever seen. What’s he good for? Just look at him, his legs are even too short for his body.”
“But, I think he may be part Corgi, that’s why.”
“Right, because Rat Terriers regularly breed with Corgis three times their size.”
“Well, I don’t know. I think he’s cute... and besides, you’re twice my size...”
“Touché, Hillary James. TOO-SHAY.” (My boyfriend slapped my ass, half jokingly, half serious. After all, he was the Alpha in this house and I had clearly not been obedient.)
________
I don’t remember a lot about the first night, save finding a couple of Tupperware dishes for water + food and searching online for the nearest Veterinary Clinic where I could have him checked out and maybe get some of those flea + tick pills. I settled on Atascazoo because they were super close and took walk-ins. I decided we’d go first thing in the morning.
Max peed himself as soon as we got to the doors of Atascazoo and you could smell the Vet Clinic. He locked up outside and refused to take another step. “Oh, buddy...I’m not gonna leave you here. We just gotta go inside and get you a couple of things you’ll need.” That didn’t seem to matter. He wasn’t gonna take one more step. So, I scooped him up in my arms and carried him inside. The Veterinary Assistant who checked us in escorted us back to a private room to wait. Max paced the floor, looking for exits. When the Doctor arrived, she informed me we’d need to run some standard blood tests first. She and her assistant drew blood and stool samples quickly and said we’d have the results in about 10 minutes, because they do all the testing in-house.
A few minutes later, the doctor returned. “I’m sorry to tell you, your new friend Max has an advanced case of heart worms. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you at the Shelter. Without treatment, he’ll die within the year, but even with treatment, I can’t guarantee he’ll live more than a couple of years. There’s a lot of risk with heart worms.” My heart sank as I learned the treatment would cost close to $1k and require me caging him and “keeping him calm” for several weeks as he passed the dying worms and recovered. Even if his heart survived the ordeal of being overtaken by parasitic worms, he could die of essentially a blood clot of dead worm gunk as the medicine killed them off. This was NOT what I had in mind when I’d been dreaming of a blonde retriever. Why do I always get myself into compromised messes like this?
“I think I can cover that with my credit card,” I worried aloud.
“In that case, I think we can do the treatment for $600, Ms. Self.”
And, with that, we decided to fight to give Max a few more, better days. Albeit caged and calm, but better: I hoped.
When we got home that day, I toted in the collapsible crate I’d purchased for his heart worm treatment and studied the bottle of horse-sized pills I was to administer over the next 2 weeks. I covered an old pillow in beach towels, attempting to feather Max’s nest the best way I knew how. I couldn’t believe I had to keep him caged nearly all day for the next month in order to prevent his heart rate from picking up. His only respite would be the four bathroom breaks I’d be allowed to give him each day.
Googling “how to administer pills to dogs” I was horrified to see owners prying open jaws and thrusting pills down the backs of their throats like they were inserting a suppository into a rectum.
“But, dogs have teeth...and feelings...I can’t do this,” I stammered out loud.
“Can’t do what?” my then-boyfriend, returning from his workout, interjected.
“I can’t shove a pill down Max’s throat.”
“Sure you can...if you’re Alpha.”
I sighed in exasperation, “This isn’t funny, Babe. The dog’s got worms. He’ll die if we don’t give him his medicine + he probably won’t last more than two years, anyway, according to the vet.”
“Ha! We?” he laughed. “YOU picked a real winner didn’t you?”
Tail tucked between my legs, I grabbed Max’s leash, wanting to create as much protective distance as I could between my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend’s ridiculous mouth and Max’s understanding eyes.
__________
Outside, Max poked around following his nose + I took the opportunity to talk to him. “Do you like the name ‘Max’, Max?” He stopped and looked up at me. He clearly knew and answered to that name.
“I don’t know, Max. I think maybe we ought to change your name to signify your new life, you know? Like a clean break from the past. What do you say?” Nothing.
“What about Duke? I always liked those old Westerns and you strike me to be a pretty well traveled guy, like a cool Cowboy” Max resumed sniffing, seemingly unimpressed.
“How about Charlie? I could call you Chuck. Like the Peanuts gang.” He hiked his leg as I continued thinking...squat Corgi body or not, he did have the coloring of a Jack Russell…
“Jacques? How about Jacques? You struck me as the French Adventurer type with your red collar…”. Still nothing.
“How about Jack?” Jack looked up.
“That’s close enough to Max, isn’t it?” His tail wagged.
Alright, buddy, that’s it! From here on out we are gonna call you “Jack”.
Little did I know then, that this little guy would turn out to be the love of my life. Back then, I just truly didn’t know Jack.