Jack

In the 14 years since I settled in Portugal, I’ve seen numerous dogs and cats come and go who, as tightly woven threads in the fabric of my neighborhood, have always been integral parts of the families and people I live alongside in the rural countryside. There was Igor, Vulcão, Boneca, Tim-Tim, Balu, Mississippi, Pantufo, Blu, Tocha, … many of whom would stroll into my yard and through my open door any given time at their leisure. Needless to say, they became a small part of my life as much as they now inhabit my memories, along with everyone else’s. Their names still come up in conversation now and then, but as much I feel their absence whenever they go, they didn’t dictate my everyday. It wasn’t until I brought Jack into my home and into my life that my world would be altered for better or worse.

Jack turned up at the local “canil” where I volunteer when I can. He was found walking down a road, dragging a small chain behind him. He was old, about thirteen as best as the vet could tell, completely deaf, and blind in one eye with partial vision in the other. He was up for adoption of course, but it was clear nobody was interested in Jack for the obvious reasons. At the time, it was getting near the middle of winter, and I noticed how Jack was always quietly wagging his tail when it was time to take the dogs for a walk. Despite his age and deficiencies, I could see he was always game. It took little more than a day or two when I made the decision to bring him home “to foster”.

Jack became part of the scene on my little street, where my neighbors got to know him as their neighbor, and treated him as such. They got to know his daily life as it changed mine. Our morning walks were followed everyday by our evening walks. He would more often than not show up with me at any of the cafés, bars, and local freguesia festivals. If I went to the Intermarché or local hardware store, he’d be in the car, waiting to get out for the usual, short stroll around the immediate area. He took road trips with me from oceanside beaches in summer to the snowy Serras in winter. Many warm afternoons were spent by the rivers where he lived with me.

After some time, people who knew Jack would ask about him: “How’s Jack?”. My next-door neighbour, Elisa, would often jokingly make the sign of the Cross when she’d see Jack, as if he were a canine Lazarus chosen by God to continue a charmed life despite his years and failing strength. I figured as long as Jack wanted to eat and go for his walks, there was nothing more beyond that for me to think about. Of course, there was the cornucopia of medications Jack was on a schedule to take two times a day: Cardisure, Cardalis, and Furosemide, as well as, later, a syrup to effectively help alleviate the persistent cough he had developed. My house became a nursing home for Jack, and he became the focus of my life; and in turn, his life indeed came to dictate my everyday.

I think Jack was a wanderer at heart, much as me. He didn’t like closed doors, so I always kept the downstairs door open for him, so he could amble out into the yard and garden at his leisure during the day or night. On two occasions, his abilities as an escape artist became apparent, closed gate be damned, which needless to say sent me into a panic as I spent the sleepless night searching for him. His return was a celebration marked by a serving of beef to give immeasurable thanks.

Jack affected my life in any number of ways. Given his disabilities, he’d inadvertently stumble into things: he broke a standing wooden sculpture one time and a nice, artesian ceramic plate on another. I bought one bed for him after another, as he had the habit of scratching them to ruin in order to fluff things up before lying down to sleep. When, after a couple of years, he became incontinent and began peeing while he slept, I’d wrap his bed in a tarp to be replaced time and again. Often, I’d find Jack in his room or outside just standing, staring at nothing, as if lost, but taking the moment in with whatever he might’ve been thinking about.

More than anything, Jack had my days planned out with usual routines. I knew what I was doing everyday and when, day in and day out. His morning and evening walks were a lesson in patience with the careful attention he paid to any moment the countless times he’d stop to smell whatever caught his interest. Every day dawned as a gift, a sacred offering to explore the ordinary which, with Jack, became extraordinary. I found the landscape held exclusive secrets Jack was privy to that I wasn’t, which only made me appreciate the knowledge of things present, but not apparent. Jack became my teacher, my friend, my brother, my companion in all things.

The afternoon I suddenly saw Jack in the middle of a massive epileptic seizure was the moment I knew the beautiful world he both created and offered me was about to fall apart. With all his medications, vet checkups, baths and haircuts, meals, walks, and as much attention as I could give him, I could keep him here only for so long. It was a day I could only imagine, but never fully realize. I had him for three years, but in the end, he didn’t go peacefully in his sleep as I had hoped, but was a decision I myself had to make with the help of the vet.

I buried Jack in my field across from my house, in the beautiful Portuguese landscape that he made his own. As much as people who have moved here find a simpler life from wherever they come, they can find how much more simple and sacred life is here, or anywhere, with an animal that needs a warm, comfortable place to live out their life. Jack was an example of that, a lesson on how to better love and be attentive in every moment of every day.