<< Back 7/17/02 Sharing a house with Jack By Gary Carden When my ancient little rat terrier, Teddie, died last year, a well-meaning friend suggested that I needed a new dog ... immediately. In view of the fact that I am deaf, a barking dog is a great advantage. Teddie always announced visitors and trespass, and he did it diplomatically. He didn’t resort to frenzy and threat, but barked as though he was making an observation. “Sir, I believe that someone’s here!” After he was gone, I sometimes looked up from my book in alarm to find an anxious friend prodding my shoulder, telling me apologetically that they had “knocked and knocked.” Yes, I needed another dog. So, off I went to see a candidate who was currently living with Veronica Nicholas, our local guardian saint of abandoned animals. He was a cute little 10-pound fellow with bat ears and brown spots. I was told that he was a Jack Russell by his current keeper. She obviously thought that I knew all about the breed, for she paused anxiously as though waiting a response. I merely nodded and asked what his name was. “Jermaine,” she said, “like the Jackson Five.” “Beg pardon?” I said. “There were five puppies in the litter and so they named them for each of the original brothers. Jermaine is the last.” “Why?” “Well, he has a cherry eye.” She then explained that a ruptured muscle in one of Jermaine’s eyes partially blocked his vision, and that it could be surgically corrected when he was six months old. I brought Jermaine home and promptly dubbed him Jack, knowing that I was incapable of standing on my porch late at night and plaintively calling “Jerrrr-mainnne.” He seemed indifferent to his new name since he generally ignored me anyway. He promptly ate three pencils, disemboweled one of my shoes and crapped on the rug. Still, he was adorable. The next day he ate a sock, most of a book and a ball-point pen. I called the local vet. “A Jack Russell!” he exclaimed. “What does that mean?” I said, conjuring up visions of raging pit bulls and cannibal dingos. “Well, they tend to be ... hyper.” “Hyper, like ... uncontrollable?” “They need a lot of exercise. Get him a Frisbee and a kid to play with.” “I’m too old for this. What else should I expect?” “They can jump! Amazing. They can jump straight up for five feet. And they dig holes .... lots of holes.” While I was trying to digest all of this, the vet said, “You want me to check around for a ... well, more appropriate owner?” I looked at Jack, blissfully asleep on the couch in a nest of mangled magazines, ravaged socks and pencil stubs. So cute. “No, I’ll stick it out,” I said. Within a week, I learned what “digging holes” meant. This jolly little pup uprooted all my flowers and turned my front yard into a terrain that resembled a bomb-pocked “no man’s land.” He also emptied all the flower pots. “He’s looking for moles,” said the vet. “In flower pots?” The eye operation was an unqualified success. Jack got his toe nails clipped, received his shots and weighed in at 15 pounds. I complained about his new hobby, collecting rocks. There were more than a hundred of them on the front porch. I decided to enroll him in obedience school. My first two calls didn’t work out. “We don’t do Jack Russells,” they said. “Why?” “They tend to be difficult until the age of 3, when they sometimes settle down. Until then, they simply ignore you.” Jack weighs in at 22 pounds now. He eats paint brushes, prescription glasses, oak furniture, Coke cans (no kidding!), cat food, magazines with perfumed ads (He loves Vanity Fair), chicken feed, garden tomatoes and rubber insulation. Oh, and Frisbees. The only thing he does not eat is dog food. He rides everywhere with me. I have several cushions on the passenger side of my van so he can see out. He is indifferent to commands, requests and begging, but loves to ride and can sometimes be coaxed into the van. He has more friends than I do. “Oh, look at the adorable dog!” the lovely blonde says, who pats Jack’s head as he hangs out of the van window. She ignores me, of course, except to ask his name. At the grocery store, I come out of Food Lion to find a cluster of folks around the van. He is a big hit on Sylva’s Main street. “His name is Jack,” I say. The mothers and children nod, and go back to talking baby talk to the bat-eared demon. I’ve become shameless, hauling him around so I can live in his reflected glory, feeling sort of like the uninteresting brother of a rock star. Jack does bark when people come to the house, but he also barks at migrating birds, cars on the street, wind and sunshine. I find myself opening the door to an empty porch a dozen times each night. Jack immediately rushes off into the darkness, barking at moonlight, hibernating moles, spruce trees, and dogs that might have been out there, but weren’t. I’m not sure what the future hold for Jack and I. Other Jack Russell owners tell me to forget flowers and a garden. “They collect rocks,” one fellow told me. “They like to arrange them on the porch.” “Yeah,” I said, “I know.” Three years. Well, actually, I only have two years to go until Jack will become docile, obedient and given to long naps. In the meanwhile, we watch videos at night — one of the few pleasures we can share. Jack likes musicals and horror films. And harmonica music. His favorite is Bob Dylan doing, “I Ain’t Gonna Work on Maggie’s Farm No More.” (Gary Carden can be reached at gcarden498@aol.com)