I Present You Jack

It was only yesterday that I told me daughter, while walking her to school, that our next dog should not be white.
“We should get a black dog, you don’t see any dirt on black dogs, and then he’ll always look clean,” I said.



Spike, when we found him by the side of the road in October 2008



 Spike, the dog we currently have, wasn’t really chosen. We picked him up from the side of the road some five years ago, so we had little choice in the matter of color. And we’re fine with him.

 

But the fact that he ALWAYS appears to be dirty, has created some problems in our house. We couldn’t care less that he’s dirty, (actually, he’s not dirty, just muddy and dusty) but our housekeeper is a stickler for everything white. The dog is white, and so he should be white, she says. She wants everything clean, and the dog being dirty annoys her to no extend. So she insists on washing him on a daily basis, which greatly vexes the old aunt in our houses (who hates all animals with a relentless vengeance). Every time he is washed, he’ll come into her room and shake himself dry. Why he prefers to do it there is a mystery to us, but it is a point of constant conflict between the housekeeper and the aunt; that dirty dog.

 

Such a conflict, that last week we had a serious fight in the house between the aunt and the housekeeper. And we need to keep both happy, because if either one of them decides to go on strike, we’re in trouble.

 

Spike (in the middle) with friends: he's always the dirtiest dog in the lot

 

So, I told my daughter, that once Spike dies, and we decide on a new dog, that dog should be black.
That was a good idea, she thought. Case closed.

 

And then we went hiking this morning with hubbie, in the mountains above Hamana.

“Hey, you see that dog running loose, just like Spike?” he remarks as we drive through Hamana.

And indeed, a dog just like Spike, walking down the road.

 

We check him out. He’s very dirty, and has no leash, but he seems healthy and he’s very friendly.

What do you do? If he stays on the road, a car will run him over. So we load him into the back of the truck. And we ask around.

 

The dog from the side of the road

“Dog? White dog? I don’t know,” says the grocer.

 

“Yeah, Alain lost his white dog last week, let me call him,” says the man of the Nargileh Café in town. But when we call Alain, Alain says he already found his dog.

 

“That’s Nabil’s dog,” says a visitor, "he’s looking for his ‘bichon’". But when Nabil comes and checks him out, he says, “Nah, mine was smaller, that’s not him.”

 

We try George, he lost his ‘bichon’ several months ago. He lives way up in the village. George looks at him apprehensively while the dog sits in the back of the truck. “Gucci! Gucci?” he calls out, but the dog does not respond. “I don’t think so. That’s not him.”

 

“That’s  Jack,” says the man who sells barbeques in town, but he cannot remember who the owner is nor where he lives, and he’s not sure of the name either.

 

Spike is happy with the new dog. I am not.

 

 We go to the local police station. It’s empty. I call out; “Anybody here?”

“I am in the kitchen,” calls out the policeman on duty. He stands in the doorway, camouflage pants and a T-shirt, a huge steak knife in his hand. “I am cooking potatoes. Can I help you?”

I explain the situation.

 

“Leave him here. When someone will come and ask for him, we’ll give him the dog,” he says.

I don’t think that’s a good idea.

 

 

“Why not?” asks my daughter.

“He’ll cook the dog if no one will pick him up,” I tell her in English.

“Mam, I AM NOT GOING TO COOK YOUR DOG!”, the policeman suddenly says in English, “I got three dogs at home. But if you want, give me your number. If anyone comes, we’ll give you a call.”

 

“That’s what they said last time,” my daughter whispers as we leave the station with Jack (he’s got a name now). That's how we ended up with Spike.

“That was a different police station,” I reply.

 

“So. What’s the plan?” hubbie asks, as we get back to the car. We do not know.

“Take him home?” my daughter suggests.

“ohohohoh, halla fie misklih bil beit, (there will be trouble in the house)” says the housekeeper, who’s with us in the car. She’s training for the 10K for the Beirut Marathon, and when we go hiking in the mountains, she joins us to go running.

 

She’s right. The old aunt, who’s spending the weekend with friends in Tripoli, will not take kindly to yet another animal in the house. She’ll be back on Monday.

As we drive through town, and a cat crosses the road, the housekeeper says “Yella waif elseyara, aw jib el pseine kamen!” (why don’t you stop and pick up that cat as well?)

 

 We laugh painfully. Very funny. She’s right though. Another dog is just about the last thing we need. But hubbie cannot throw anything helpless out (there’s a reason I married him, although I didn’t know this at the time)

 

Jack is the one on the right. Spike is the on the left. Spike is not up for adoption.

 

 And so I present to you Jack. Very friendly. Healthy. No fleas or ticks. A large white bichon, male. He seems to be house trained, and is good with kids (My daughter washed him, he’s very well behaved).

If he is yours, or do you feel compelled to have him, than mail me at galama at cyberia dot net dot lb.

 

Before Monday morning if possible, because that’s when the old aunt comes back from her holiday.