Ode To Jackson, A Tribute

I raise a glass, to the best of friends
From the start his life, until mine ends
Two creatures of the land
Bound by what, no one knows
Part ways for a time
'Til we both make the grass grow.

"We're going to put him down, probably this week," my mom told me over the phone. I barely had time for pause before she abruptly cut in, "I shouldn't have told you that." That's my mother's worst attribute in a nutshell: saving me from real pain. Her love cannot be measured, both ways between us, but she has never been able to admit to me when bad things happen until it is too late. I turn twenty-four on Sunday.

Jackson, our white lab, golden retriever mix, splashed with just a little hint of Germain Shepard, was put to sleep on Friday. Nearing seventeen years of age (it's hard for me to do the math for dog years, but I know it is high) and spending fifteen and half years with us, it was hard for my mother, my father, and my brother to say good-bye. Rightly so.

In his youth, Jackson was the spriest of dogs -- running everywhere except up and downstairs, ready to play a game of chicken at the drop of a hat, and guarding his home turf for better or worse. Two times he actually bit the friendly Mormon folk who would wonder into our backyard ('cause that's what you do in Utah), one the home owners association president of block, the other, a cable guy. Mitchell Holladay was bitten on the hand by him and had it healed with a badged and cold can of beer pressed onto the wound. Sam, by younger brother, was bitten on the eye and nearly lost it because he pushed Jackson to the limits. And I know I'll sound foolish and ignorant for saying it, but he was one of the best dogs I've ever known.

See, what most people didn't understand about Jackson is that he was more honest in himself than most humans are. He had good days, but he also had bad days. Those good outweighed the bad by a long shot. Jackson was a trail blazer during the hikes up Millcreek canyon, sometimes venturing a quarter of a mile ahead of us to clear the path. He wasn't guarding his home so he was friendly to anyone he met on the trail, a real friend of nature. And when he'd gone too far, faster than any of us could manage, he'd run back to check on us, spotting my dad or myself, before taking off to scout the terrain he'd been over a million times.

Did he fart? Like no other creature I've ever been around. Did he get in trouble? That dog would eat Kleenex and Vaseline if you left it out. Did he drive me crazy? Sure. On one occasion, shortly after we'd gotten him, he'd grabbed one of my winter gloves as I was trying to get a key from my pocket. The problem was that the glove was still attached to my coat sleeve and didn't snap off, so I got dragged through the snow, simultaneously laughing and crying at the same time. And no matter what season, he'd climb up on the couch with you and let you scratch his inner thigh, slowly sending him off to sleep. He kept watch, especially in the later years, when there was no threat at all. Several times a night he'd wake us up, just to let us know he was still there. I think he was reassuring himself in his old age to make sure we hadn't left him.

I, myself, am dealing with the loss of my old friend in ups and downs. I know my parents made a hard choice, but it was the right choice. His heart and mind were strong, even if the senility had made him more skittish and his bladder was more gone than his mind. "You keep hoping they'll pass in the night and you'll find them in the morning," my dad told me last night on our weekly phone call. He sounded depressed, not just his normal down trodden tone, but real hurt. "They never do." Dad's put both of the dogs in his will, stating his wishes to have their ashes buried with him when the time comes. I guess since I've left home I've removed myself from all things there, for better or worse. I want to cry, but I can't because I wasn't there to help out and part of me knows I shouldn't: this is a time of change, every single year, and I'm aware of that now. The week before my birthday always seems to be the hardest as my skin sheds and a new one forms. It hurts a lot. I turn twenty-four on Sunday.

The one person I worry about the most, who probably his hurting the most and unable to speak up is Jackson's canine companion, our other dog, Taz. Though not blood brothers, they were inseparable. As youths, they fake wrestle. As they got older, they'd clean each other's ears and take care of the other one. I hope Taz isn't lost, but how I can I say that when I'm not there to carry some of the load. They say couples who really love each other do not spend much time apart when one dies. Losing two of my family members, because a dog is, no matter what any one says, would be too hard and I'm just using all my back logged wishes that I can feel Taz's lick me in October when I visit for Thanksgiving. I'm sure he misses his brother.

Well, that last bit finally got me and I'm sitting in a puddle of my own salt water running down my face. At this point, all I can do is toast my friend, my brother, and dog who helped raise me.

Jackson, you will be missed and loved