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Friday, Aug. 1, 2014

Walking with Jackie the Ripper

Thursday, September 11, 2003

The following is written with apologies to Mr. Poe and his pet raven.

Once while in the throes of madness I determined to my sadness that my life would never be complete without a dog.

Thus I looked in papers newsy for I wanted to be choosy. I even called the vet but she was busy with a hog.

"With a hog?" you ask. Yes, truly she was busy with a hog.

I was told she'd be in soon. Sure enough, she called by noon with the names of several breeders she could highly recommend.

My desire was for a sweet and gentle dog that didn't eat a large amount of food and one that wouldn't need a pen.

"Are you poor?" you ask. I answer, "Yes, I can't afford a pen."

So I chose a dachshund cute with a tiny, pointed snoot capable of sniffing out all nasty, evil scents of awful crud.

Oh! Well do I recall the day Jackie found the dead blue jay. Many weeks it had been sunning in the Mississippi mud.

"Was the odor bad?" you ask. I answer, "Even worse than all that mud."

On a trip back to the hills the darling bit my brother Bill's hand. As you might guess he had a pure and simple fit.

The wound jarred him to the core, though it closed with stitches four. You would have thought the dog had rabies from the way he talked to it.

"Did he curse?" you ask. I answer, "That's the way he talked to it."

When the rug got chewed to pieces I caught Sister feeding Reeses' Peanut Butter Cups to Jackie. She thought they would make her die.

But she didn't. We came home and we certainly won't roam from our place here in the sun where people praise her to the sky.

If you ask "Do people praise her?" I will answer with a lie.

In defense of our great nation, (Jac fears alien invasion) every morning when I turn her out she prances round the ditch.

Proudly running, running proud! Barking loudly, barking loud! Till she wakes the neighbors up. They scream, "Shut up, you little witch!"

I like to think that's what they scream ... "You little witch!"

At the Chili Dog we meet several friends and then we eat bacon biscuits. She likes fat ... I favor lean.

But the staff likes her the best so orders filled at her behest simply drip with bacon grease. I think that's mean.

I dare not complain about it for I fear an ugly scene.

So unless my funds are few I almost always get us two bacon biscuits. That way I get several bites.

Still I love that scamp to pieces, and her love for me increases 'cause she hasn't wet me much since Friday night.

Don't you think that means she loves me, or at least maybe she might?