Witnessing the Work of Dying: Part 2

When I picked Jack up a week or so later to take him home I learned that Jackson was horribly abused. He was confiscated by animal control for suspicion of use in dog fighting as a bait puppy. He had skin and eye infections and was so malnourished they considered euthanizing him. He still has scars under his beautiful brindle coloring because of the harm hateful humans inflicted on him. 

You’d never know he came from such a horrific past. He quickly became part of the family. Mollie learned to love him and they became inseparable. 

For those who’ve been so lucky to meet Jack, you know there is a magic about him. 

He became my guardian. He rode the waves of grief and loss with me. The next few years were tumultuous, and Jack was my living weighted blanket. When the tears flowed violently, he licked them away with his dogged determination to fix whatever was broken within me. 

Mollie was there too. She kept me active and was stuck to me like glue. Never leaving my side. She’s curled up next to me as i edit this post. We’ve climbed mountains together, done multi-day camping trips (jack begrudgingly came on those as well), and trained for half marathons together. 

Jack ran with me one time. He shit himself mid run. Violently. Explosively. We were both mortified. I had to toss him in the river to wash all the poop off of him. We agreed after that run, to never risk that embarrassment again. He also pooped the car once on a long car ride. That was embarrassing for the both of us again. So. Much. Poop. I thought I was going to have to throw my whole car away. But hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

Jack was made for snuggling. All 65 pounds of pure muscle. He prefers to be little spoon in bed. Held tightly like a teddy bear with his block of a head sharing my pillow. Or if we are lounging on the couch, he prefers to lounge directly on top of him. HIs legs wrapped around me and his head resting on my chest. 

My own personal 65 pound weighted blanket. He kept me from floating away as I navigated my loneliness, a deep experience of abandonment, and a grief that was unending. 

Jack is built like a brick house. People cross the side walk when they see him. Handymen won’t enter the house when Jack lets out an AROOOOO to say hello. But Jack is the biggest baby of a dog you could ever meet. 

He’s more emotional than a pms-ing teenager. He peed in the house once when I brought him home and I yelled at him! NOOO! Bad Jack! My words pierced him like a kick to the face. He laid on my lap for two hours afterwards so full of regret and doggy shame. And he never did it again. 

When we walk together he prances. Like one of those fancy horses that is trained to do that fancy little gallop. But Jack didn’t need training to be fancy. He has it in his bones. 

I knew Jack was sick when Arturo brought him up to visit me in Washington, D.C. for Christmas this past year. There was a subtle change about him. And so began the witnessing his work of dying.