The Little Pack

It is hard to believe that I have had Jackson for 8 years now. As we walked today I couldn’t help but reflect on all the ways we have both grown and changed throughout the years and how in the end, the one thing that has never changed is how much I love him. My heart still sings when I watch him run, and I feel proud every single time he listens to every word I say, sometimes even the ones I don’t say out loud. People we pass always comment on how well-behaved he is. Today I found him heeling (we call that “stay with”) when we were passing a group of people before I ever even asked him. We truly have an amazing connection. There are times I go to the door to call him to come inside and he is already there waiting. There are times that I feel sad and he is right there by my side before that first tear even falls. There are times that I decide to take him for a walk and he begins to celebrate before I even tell him or start to get ready. We know the way the other thinks and I know what we share is the stuff of legend. Think Jack London books and The Journey of Natty Gann. And I am blessed.

The story of Jackson began one day during my lunch break when I went to the animal shelter “just to look.” I finally lived in a place where I could have a dog and I was even able to bring a dog to work. I had been waiting to have a dog forever. I thought I wanted a black lab puppy, kind of the best of everything, easy going, lots of endurance for long runs and hikes, but also content just to hang out. I had lived with a border collie named Cowboy and a golden retriever named Sage, and although I absolutely adored border collies, I thought that a more mellow breed would be a good idea.

At the shelter, there was a crazy dog named Butch, who sprang up in the air continuously, a female golden retriever who was a little older, 7ish maybe. And then there were 2 border collie puppies, about 6 months old, named Ziggy and Marley. Marley could have cared less that I was there. He was mildly interested in me, but that was about the extent of it. But Ziggy, Ziggy came right up to the door of his cage and put his snout through the opening and gave me kisses. His broken heart was obvious and he was scared and insecure. I immediately felt a connection to this dog.

Someone suggested I take him into a separate area and spend time with him away from the other dogs. I put the leash on him and he stood facing away from me with his nose in the corner of his cage. I spoke to him in my most persuasive voice and still he did not  move. I had to pick him up and carry him into the other room. He continued to face away from me with his little face in the corner. I tried talking to him, but he was so afraid he just kept staring straight ahead. So I sat down next to him and removed the leash. We sat that way for a long time.

Pretty soon, he stopped staring in the corner, and turned to face me. I didn’t dare talk or even breathe because I didn’t want to spook him. He took a few steps towards me and I sat perfectly still. He laid down next to me and put his head on my leg and my heart just broke into a million little pieces. Before long, he had climbed up into my lap, and put his head inside my fleece and let me pet him. This was the moment I said to him, “I think that I need to take you home with me. OK?” So I did, and Ziggy became my Jackson.

Just call me Pet Mom of the Year. Again. Jackson badly tore his dewclaw over the weekend–the nail sheath was completely torn away from the nail bud. It was super painful for him and I knew the vet would need to put him under anesthesia to cut the nail back. I decided we may as well get his teeth cleaned at the same time. Unfortunately, he had a cracked tooth with an exposed, infected root. I am sure that this has been causing him considerable pain, especially when eating. So, turns out, the reason he acted as though eating his dinner was pure torture was because… it is. Every night he would look at me with agony as though to say, Please don’t make me eat..and every night I would sternly say, Jackson, this is ridiculous, eat your dinner. The end of his tail would wag: thunk, thunk, thunk, and then I would give him The Look. You know, the I-Mean-Business-Boy-and-Don’t-Make-Me-Come-Over-There Look. And because he is such a good boy, he would comply.

Somewhere along the way we began to set time limits on toys. Toy Time officially ends at 10pm. Jackson has learned what “It’s past Toy Time, Buddy” means, along with “Last time” and “One more time.” The best part is that  he seems to have a sense of when Toy Time should end. Occasionally my husband will try to tell him that Toy Time has ended early, at say 8:30. Jackson knows better and will look at him like he’s stupid. But tonight at 10 o’clock exactly, Jackson stopped bringing me his toy on his own and laid down. My dogs never cease to amaze me.