Jackson

We had just moved into our first condo together, two 50-something kids just starting out, when suddenly her pride and joy Maggie, part English Setter/part reincarnated Queen of England, died on Easter Sunday.

After a couple months of inconsolable crying, a friend suggested we foster a puppy from Mary’s Dogs in Northwood. It was July 4th weekend, and all but one of the pups had someplace to stay; staff badly needed a break, so we volunteered to foster the last doggie at the inn — Jackson, a 5-month old black mutt from the South. We learned he was plucked, with his mom and siblings, from under the front porch of a dilapidated house on the “wrong side” of the tracks in Little Rock — a heroin den, actually.

We took ”glam shots” of the handsome youngster in hopes of attracting an adoption to his forever home. But we were impressed with his chill demeanor and endless curiosity. (He once stopped and watched an airplane fly 36,000 miles over head. Never seen a dog so curious!) When he first went inside our new condo, he hesitated at the front door (transitions bothered him) but once inside, he spotted the leather couch, hopped up, curled up, and laid his head down.

We laughed, shaking our heads: “Make yourself comfortable, Jack!” And he was. And today, 4 years later, he’s still curled up on that same couch.

A note about this photo: Soon after this picture was taken, a rainbow appeared over the river, and we found a heart-shaped rock on the launch ramp. Whoever was talking to us was NOT being subtle!