Of all the fun things that happened over the past month on my early summer road trip, perhaps one of the most bizarre and eye-opening was a discovery that I will now attempt to describe to you.
Regular readers will note that I am a proud dog owner. So now is the part where I back up and give a little history. I’ve always been a dog guy. There’s just something about these furry little creatures with their loyalty and cuddliness that speaks to me and, I dare say, most men. They don’t call them “man’s best friend” for nothing. I remember as a lad of 13 telling my mom that I wanted a dog. In fact, I told her I wanted a yellow Labrador retriever because they had become a popular breed and I loved the look of the dog. I didn’t think anything would come of my request until one August New Jersey morning when Mom handed me the classified section of the Star Ledger with a circled ad. The whole preceding sentence makes me feel ancient. The ad began: “Free to a loving home…” and by the end of the day, yours truly had acquired a beautiful 2 year-old yellow Labrador retriever, fully trained and incredibly lovable. She really was a wonderful bitch and the teenage boy that I was never ceased to laugh at that joke.
And then she died. Hey, life is hard. Let’s just rip the band-aid off and get it over with. After four years and right as I was getting ready to head to college, Molly developed a bone cancer and we had to put her down. Although I was sad, I also felt a bit of relief. I had no idea who was going to take her on walks when I was away at school. I got over it soon but also I didn’t. I vowed that I would never own a dog again. If someone else owned a dog and wanted to let me play fetch with it all day long? That was fine. But as for me? I had determined not to be a dog owner ever again.
That’s why it came as a shock to me many years later when I inherited a dog from a women who is very much alive.
Flash forward to December of 2012. My father-in-law had died a few months earlier and my dear mother-in-law had decided to get a dog from the shelter. She wanted a small dog as a companion and for all of her grandkids (two of whom are mine) to have a doggy to play with when they were visiting. She went to the shelter and saw a dog that caught her eye – a little Jack Russell Terrier. She went home and prayed a full-on novena to St. Francis and returned to find that little guy still awaiting adoption. So she brought him home on Christmas Eve. My kids had been watching the movie Elf and named him Buddy. By the way, I discovered recently that the most popular names for dogs in America are Molly for girl dogs and Buddy for boys. Real original, huh?
All was well with Buddy for a year until Granny came down with a little case of cancer. Oh she’s golden now but there were a few days right before Christmas 2013 where she was hospitalized with the flu. I had been going over to her house to feed the dog and let him out. After about three such visits, I brought the dog to my house to make it easier on myself.
And he never left.
That’s it. She was happy to be rid of the responsibility and I was, begrudgingly, happy to have a furry friend once more. Also, he seemed to take to me really well. I must say, I never really liked small dogs. They don’t suit my personality or my own size. A man should have a man’s dog. Remember that Labrador? Yeah, great dog for a teenage boy. Now I’m kind of at the Irish Wolfhound stage of the game. But little Buddy, at all of 12 lbs. soaking wet? Well, he was something different. In fact, he really doesn’t check any of the boxes that I always associate with dogs. He won’t sit on your lap. He doesn’t lick your face. He lacks any energy unless he’s got the zoomies. Also, we discovered early on that he’s extraordinarily temperamental. As in, if you touch his leg the wrong way, he’ll bite your face off. Literally, people have had to get stitches. In fairness, they were warned. Also, he has killed at least two cats that we know of.
Yes, in fact, this tiny powerhouse quickly ingratiated himself with me. He sleeps on my bed. I’ve taught him scores of tricks. He goes ape for baby carrots. Nothing about this dog makes any sense but at the age of 15 we figured he’s earned the right to stick around for a while longer.
And then I found out his dirty little secret.
While visiting with a friend who’s finishing her veterinary training, I showed her a picture of my little guy. I have about 4,000 of them on my phone. He’s certainly photogenic. She took one look and said, “You know he’s half chihuahua, right?”
Slander!
I was so taken aback at the thought the one dog I swore I would never own might have somehow been hiding in plain sight in my house all this time.
But she was right as rain. I Googled it. Turns out he’s a breed called a Jack-chi. This lead to some obvious questions.
Was I going to have to call ICE on him? And more importantly, what cretin decided, “Hey! Let’s take the schizophrenia of a Jack Russell and cross it with the demon spawn from hell of a chihuahua?” Good Lord, this explains so much. That sensitive spot we always told guests not to touch? No, he’s just an asshole. So many questions and also so many answers… I grew up in a heavily Puerto Rican neighborhood. I suppose it was only natural that one of these overgrown rats would find his way into my heart. How could I have been so blind? I mean, I still kind of like the dog but this changes everything.
A chihuahua?!
Was the British Navy ever docked in Tijuana?
I imagine his sire probably drank too much tequila and maybe swallowed the worm.
How will I ever face reality again?
Then I came home.
He must have gotten word that I knew his secret. He came right up to me, looking and acting more Jack than Chi. I stooped down to pat him on the head. And staring right at me, my good boy gave me a lick on the face.
We will carry on together as if nothing has changed.
Hell, he’s probably only got a few more decades of life in him anyway.
Harvey Millican's Blog: Musings of a Trad Dad 