Jack was his name, and he was all boy,

Her favorite — “Bud,” Linda called him.

Built like a miniature rhinoceros, a toy,

He was considerably more than trim.   

Lucky boy, that little dog of mine,

A Jack Russell Terrier was he.

Whatever I did, with him it was fine

If he could just pal around with me.

Adventure was his reason to be.

Several times came close to dying:

Climbed over ravine on leaning tree

No reverse course, held on — crying.

I climbed up to steady his stance,

Scooted backward with him in tow,

Happiness, his tail-wagging dance,

When we found solid ground below.

Another time, walking in the snow,

We meandered along a river bank.

Jack missing — now where’d he go?

Back there — a  blowdown to thank!

In the water, a snow-covered tangle,

Almost hiding black terrier nose.

His remainder submerged at angle,

Hanging to brush as I drew close.

Tree-trunk fortunately part of the mess,

Allowed me to scoot to his rescue:

Pulled him from the wet blackness,

Scruff of his neck, handle of value.

A heave and he landed on wet ground,

Coughing and wagging stubby tail so,

Happy he’d finally been found,

His feet again on solid snow.

Then there was the wildest time of all,

When he found an animal to scare

Sleeping under a blown over root-ball.

He dived ‘neath the roots without care.

First I thought it was a ‘possum he had,

Then maybe a skunk, ‘cause it was black,

It was worse than that — in fact — bad.

It was a bear he’d dared to attack.   

Guess the reaction of a sleeping bear

Awakened by a yapping, snapping dog:

It turned in its rather cramped lair

To fight this hellish nightmare.

Jack’s head in it’s mouth was plain,

Raking with claws at his nose and eyes.

Jack yowled in surprise and pain,

Struggled to escape with muffled cries.

Between the roots, I saw its claws rip —

Jammed my walking stick into its side.

Surprised, it released Jack from its grip,

He backed out, wounds bleeding wide.

The “terrierfied” bear came out as well,

Puffing out as between roots it squeezed,

Climbed a tree, head high, and fell,

Tried again — winded, it wheezed.

It ran off through the trees, traumatized,

A hundred pounds of young bear.

If larger, Jack would’ve been finalized.

As it was, he mostly got a bad scare.

From his neck a laceration bled,

His eye socket had a nasty tear,

His nose, a deep claw mark red,

But not too much worse for wear.

He lived on for several years,

His total, seventeen and more,

But in the midst of our tears,

Jack’s health, good no more.

I suppose his life just ran out,

For if he moved far he’d faint.

In spite of steroids, each bout

Left him beat — without complaint.

A needle in a small vein in his arm,

Delivered a merciful dose of death.

One second, no hint of alarm,

Next, slumped, no hint of breath.

So peaceful, this way of expiring.

I wish to be afforded the same,

When life’s run out and transpiring,

And no more hope in the game. 

Yes, Jack had an interesting past,

As did Jessie and Lizzie, his world.

Of the quartet, Spunky’s the last —

And Jack’s history’s now unfurled.

We laid him to rest in his little grave,

Beside Jessie’s and Lizzie’s tombs —

Home of the small and the brave —

‘Neath flowers ’n’ wild mushrooms.

© 2008 R. Leland Waldrip