Jackie and Me
Photo by Dick Sheppard
What’s on my mind?
Sometimes, I find myself thinking about Jackie. Our time together was brief and ended in heartbreak, but I truly loved that little dog.
Jackie was a pye-dog, a scrappy, lovable mutt our cook, Amin, brought home one afternoon. I claimed him as mine, even though he really belonged to Amin, who planned to make money from local dogfights. Jackie lived in the servants’ quarters with Amin and Riaz, the gardener, but in my heart, he was always mine.
I was a bit scrappy myself back then, so Jackie and I bonded immediately. I spoiled him, carried him everywhere, played tug-of-war with socks from the clothesline, and picked ticks from his floppy brown ears. I’d always wanted a dog of my own, and Jackie filled that void.
All my attention made it impossible for Jackie to fulfill his purpose as a vicious fighter. Amin would joke that I’d made Jackie too soft to be mean or intimidating, that he’d never make a rupee off the dog. He never said it outright, but I had ruined Jackie. Still, Amin never complained; I was a Miss Sahib. He couldn’t. Sometimes, I’d catch Amin watching us play in the front yard, shaking his head and smiling.
We had a Pakistani neighbor at the end of the street who owned a German Shepherd guard dog. He always complained about me. “Go away, girl, you’re ruining my guard dog!” he’d snap. “He can’t do his job with you always hanging around and petting him!” Duke liked me because I was kind to him. Nobody else was.
I was known throughout the neighborhood for being too familiar with other people’s dogs. I couldn’t help it. My reputation came from my parents’ decision not to have pets while we lived in Pakistan. They didn’t want the pain of becoming attached, only to later leave a beloved pet behind.
Our school bus stop was just a few houses from mine, on a three-sided raised concrete patch we called “the triangle,” at a quiet three-way intersection. Each morning, kids gathered there to wait for the bus. One day, a large black pye-dog appeared, one I’d never seen before. His wild eyes darted around, and drool dangled from his mouth as he staggered, circling the triangle and baring his teeth. The dog was rabid, and there was nowhere to run.
A British mother driving a Fiat pulled up to the triangle and shouted to the bystanders, “I can run the dog over with my car if you need me to!” The idea of witnessing a hit-and-run felt even more horrifying. The servants started yelling and hurling rocks at the dog, but it refused to run far, always edging back. Thankfully, the school bus finally arrived, and we scrambled aboard, shaken but safe.
That afternoon, when I got home, Amin told me the rabid dog had returned soon after the bus left. I never learned whether the Fiat ran it over, or whether a cook or gardener intervened with a gun. All I knew was that Jackie had been bitten, and the rabid dog was dead.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Sahib,” Amin said quietly. “There was nothing I could do to save Jackie.” I began to cry. Amin did not dare comfort me.
I learned that after Jackie was bitten, Amin placed him in an empty garbage can. I imagine Jackie’s little tail wagging, his floppy ears, and his trusting brown eyes looking up at Amin, confused and whimpering. With one shot, it was over.
Amin closed the lid.
Looking back at old photos of Jackie and me, I’m reminded of the joy he brought during those awkward, uncertain years in Pakistan. Jackie taught me about both love and loss; though our time together was short, his memory has lingered ever since.
No matter how much time passes, Jackie will always be my dog in my heart. For that act of kindness, thank you, Amin.
