For Jackson

“We do not need a damn dog!” I exclaimed for what seems like the thousandth time. This conversation had been a topic of my wife’s for awhile, and I understand. Our youngest was scared of dogs, even little ones, since she was barely walking. But getting tackled by a Great Dane and a Saint Bernard tends to be traumatic to a toddler. So if we got a dog, a small dog, maybe daily exposure would help with her fear.

Now, my stance on it had remained ever vigilant. They are expensive, loud, food costs, vet costs, shots, and worst of all they poop. I was not in the humor to pick up (or step in) poop. So my resolve to not get a dog had never wavered. Eventually, my wife let it go for awhile. Then, in 2013, my wife hit me with this conversation.

“You are going through chemotherapy.” This was true. I was diagnosed with cancer in early 2013. “You’re home from work, tired, alone in this house, and you could use a little company. Having a small dog, like a poodle, would be a wonderful companion while you’re recovering.”

This annoyed me. I could see her point and, I had to admit, she had a good one. Yeah, I was lonely after everyone left for school and work. But I just figured I’d deal. But after some consideration, I relented. Sort of, anyway.

“Alright, you can look for one, but I have conditions. First, the dog has to be male. I am outnumbered with three girls in the house already, that’s not going to include a quadruped. Second, I get to name him. I’m not going to leave it to the kids and have them name him “doggie” or “Hannah Montana” or some crap like that. Third, for us to get him, I got to fall in love with this dog, and I mean LOVE. Like if he was going to get run over by a UPS truck, I would run in front of it to save his life type love. Do you agree to these conditions?”

So my wife started looking. Now, there was a major condition that went unsaid because it went without saying: he had to be hypoallergenic. I’m allergic to pet dander. It is amazing how, at that point in time, there were ZERO male hypoallergenic dogs on the websites. When we did find a couple, there was no spark. Nothing. My wife was getting impatient so she sweet talked me into going to check out a couple females. They were adorable, that’s why I went back on my condition.

For one, we drove almost two hours to get to this shelter only to find that the one we wanted had been claimed. Cue disappointment. The worker said that she did have another dog who had been reserved, but she didn’t think the check would go through. Would I be interested in seeing him? So I shrug and figure while we’re here, it wouldn’t make the trek a total bust. So she disappeared for a few minutes.

She returned with this jet black puppy no bigger than a loaf of rye bread. He sees me and starts squirming. She put him down and he made a bee line right to me. I knelt down and he literally jumped into my arms. He then got on my shoulder like I was trying to burp a baby, nuzzles into my neck, and he let out this deep, heavy sigh like he was home. It felt fated. I only needed to look at my wife and she knew.

“Does he have a name?” I asked.

“Jackson,” she told me.

I smiled and turned to my wife, “I’m getting him a collar with what Samuel L. Jackson had on his wallet in Pulp Fiction.”

So the original deal with Jackson did fall through, and we got him. The two days before it was official, I was actually in tears worried he wouldn’t be ours. Me, in tears, over a dog. If you would’ve told me that was bound to happen I would’ve called you a liar. Jackson sat with me as I recovered from every dose of chemotherapy. Since then, he waits for me to come home when I’m with my friends, he sleeps next to me, he sits next to me whenever he can. Jackson is legitimately MY dog, and it feels amazing. And see how this guy, nine years old now, has grown while still keeping his playful puppy qualities is a testament to how he and I are perfect for one another. I might be forty-five but I’m a big kid myself. In many ways, the little guy saved my life. Since the day I met him, I have understood how people consider pets their family. Before then, I thought it was stupid. Pets were pets. I get it now. I get it so much, Jackson was the first of our currently five fur-babies, two of whom are sisters that were going to be split up. They were dependent on each other, it would’ve hurt both of them. I asked, “If we take both, will we get them outright?” I couldn’t split them up.

I joke all the time that this is all my wife’s fault, and it kind of is, but I honestly don’t mind. I think friends and family are confounded that we have five dogs, which in itself is kind of fun. Seeing their faces when I say proudly, “I’m married, two girls, five puppies,” is always entertaining. And it was all due to one little dog named Jackson.

This story is a hundred percent true. I dedicate this work to my wife, Holly, and our five fur-babies, Thor, Anna, Elsa, Pearl, and of course Jackson for making my family complete. I love all of you.