JACK

by Jamie Cheshire

“Spanish Johnny [Jack] drove in from the underworld last night. [Well, the night of July 23] With bruised arms and broken rhythm and a beat-up old Buick but dressed just like dynamite.”

He sold us his heart. The price was our hearts.

He said his name was Jack. Jack anything. Jack Kerouac, Jack LaLanne, Jack Sparrow, Jumpin Jack Flash, Jack Dempsey, Calico Jack, Jackson Browne, Jack Kennedy, Jack Sprat, Happy Jack, Jack be nimble.

We said, “you look like a Pocket Mastiff.”

He said, “call me Jack.”

He was a gas, gas, gas.

Jack came as a medical foster with a serious case of heartworms, an uncertain prognosis and a fragile sense of self and place.

We stuck with him through the medical issues.

We gave him a stable home with easy routines.

We watched the shattered pieces of his confidence begin to regroup. We watched an ebullience, a goofy elegance and a quiet nobility emerge. We watched his eyes relax. We admired his agility and his sleek muscularity. We were astonished at his astonishing good looks. We watched him become social. We noticed his quirks. We watched him claim home. We fell in love.

But when a new little urgent foster showed up here on Tuesday, the Jack who met her – out of nowhere and with no warning – was Jack the Ripper.

Now, it is our confidence that’s shattered. It isn’t a decision to be made. It’s a requirement to be recognized, as difficult as it may be to accept. We cannot adopt Jack. We cannot keep a dog who exhibits this kind of predatory aggression.

We have to say goodbye.

We saw a long runway with Jack. He was part of our pack. We looked forward to him growing old and becoming as soft and as sure as an old flannel jacket. We can’t see that now.

The summer of Jack has ended.

Devastation may not have a particular shape or voice but it does have a jagged profile. Our hearts have that now, too.

But it’s all right now. Or it will be. It was a gas.