Jack
Phil Dillon, Emporia
Monday, February 28, 2011
I’ve been preoccupied with Emporia’s political machinations for several weeks. It’s depressing, really. To hear our current leaders, one would think that Emporia is close to being heaven on earth. The slum lords, the poverty, the low wage jobs are just figments of overactive imaginations. Why, things are good enough to build monuments to our leaders’ success. The happy talk tends to make a contrarian like me think the only sensible option is to let this mess implode upon itself and start over again.
Thankfully, the really important things in life sometimes intervene and harmonic balance is restored. The source of my restoration in this case was our dog, Jack. Last week at this time his kidneys were failing. His liver had all but shut down. It appeared that the dreaded decision about euthanasia was at hand.
I remember the first time I met Jack in Kansas City. He was the ugliest, fattest dog I’d ever seen. The staff at Wayside Waifs told us his name was Butterball. He weighed forty-four pounds, which made him about twenty-four pounds overweight. The weight sat on four of the spindliest legs I’d ever seen on a dog. He breathed with a snort. His eyes were huge, proportional to his overweight body and out of proportion to his small head. But, none of that seemed to matter. Nancy loved him and so did Ranger, our Sheltie. There was no way I could object.
By the time we left Kansas City Butterball had become Jack. I think it was Nancy ‘s way of subliminally crafting a new identity for Jack. “You used to think you were Butterball the Obese.” “You’re now Jack the Nimble and Quick.” “You can jump over candlesticks and on a good day you can leap tall buildings in a single bound.”
As soon as we got to Emporia I tried Nancy ‘s theory out. Ranger, Jack and I headed out, with Ranger leading the way. We got to Welch Stadium, about a mile and a half from home and Jack seemed to be doing okay. We got to the gazebo by Wooster Lake and Jack decided he’d had enough exercise. I tried coaxing him. Ranger fidgeted about and wagged his tail, which I took to be his attempt to get Jack moving. It didn’t work. About five minutes passed and Jack began to move. He walked about a hundred yards and stopped again, setting a process in place that would repeat itself till we got home.
Jack survived the ordeal. It bound us together. I learned to do a lot of things at Jack’s pace and he learned how to do the forbidden things. I’d occasionally notice that my leather chair was warm when it shouldn’t have been. I’d look at Jack and think, “He’s too fat to get up in a chair.” It took me about a year, but I finally caught him in the act. He knew the jig was up and he held his paw up to me as penance. It made forgiveness very easy.
For three years we’ve worked together. Diet food and daily walks have brought his weight down to 27 pounds. I’ve become quite fond of the other routines that go with the work. The bulging eyes that greet me at the foot of the stairs each morning. The sound of his claws against the wood floors as he hops upstairs to wake Nancy every morning at 6:30. The excitement that courses through his body when I utter the words, “Wanna’ go for a walk, Jackie boy?”
By Wednesday things were looking grim. Reports from Floyd Dorsey, our vet, weren’t promising. But, Doc kept encouraging us to hang on and we did.
Jack’s a real pal. I know I have person to person obligations in this world, but to be honest, I like Jack a lot more than the average politician. He’s never required much of me – daily walks, an occasional biscuit, and soothing tones. Unlike our city commissioners or our more exalted political leaders, he’s never picked my pocket. About his only sin has been has been sitting in my leather chair, which is a far cry from trying to take it out from under me.
Things on Thursday didn’t look good. Then, on Friday, there was some good news. Doc couldn’t exactly figure it out, but Jack was getting better. By Saturday we brought him home. It’s now Monday and I hear the familiar clicking of Jack’s claws on the floor. It seems that hope is sometimes rewarded.
Things look very good now. Hopefully, they’ll stay that way awhile.
I think there’s a political lesson in this for me. There’s always hope. When Election Day comes it will just be a matter of sorting out the Jacks from the pickpockets.