The Loch Jack Momster

There's a reason I don't provide you with more stories of Puppy Jack and Sweet, Sweet Juno. No, not because it becomes tiresome for you to think up comments about somebody else's fleabags, who are not that pretty, not that special. That's an homage to Abby Wyczenski Lockhart Kovac of ER, back from the days of Thursday night Must See TV. Poor Abby. I wanted to smack Luka when he said that to her. Served him right when she broke into his apartment to get her stuff back, and (allegedly accidentally) cracked his fish tank.

No, the reason I don't give you more Jack and Juno is not because I don't want to be THAT person who only posts about her precious pets. I have no problem being THAT person. Like it lump it. Read it or don't. The REAL reason you don't see Jack and Juno every other day is because it's so very hard to get a picture of them.

Here's the latest:

Yep. That's the best one. I tried. But with this fancy new Genius hand-me-down phone, the Nexus 5X, there's a bit of a lag from when you poke the TAKE IT button, and the snap of the picture. I could have my mutts posed pretty as a picture, but by the time the camera clicks, it's chaos. Thank goodness I'm not crouched behind enemy lines, trying to remain undetected. Or watching the U.S. Open during a crucial putt. Because I'd be locked up in a POW camp, with a putter wrapped around my neck, faster that you could say Jack Thevictorian! My canines don't cotton to calm poses for your viewing pleasure.

So...enjoy this wet shoulder of Puppy Jack, and the four feet of Sweet, Sweet Juno. I've got a tale to tell that's been on the back burner since the week before The Pony left.

Jacky Boy has been in a bit of trouble of late, what with chewing the shingles off The Pony's Sword Shack, and jumping in every body of water within the boundaries of our 20 acres (and some that were not), and allegedly pooping on the trunk of Hick's 1980 Toronado. Ahh...I remember the salad days, when he was only in trouble for pooping on the porch.

I was headed off for my 44 oz Diet Coke, and to Save A Lot one morning, and told The Pony to take out the overflowing trash. I made one last pit stop before exiting the homestead, because I'm not Jack, and Save A Lot doesn't have a porch. I passed The Pony in the kitchen on my way out.

"Look out. Jack pooped on the porch again, and it's right there on the way to the steps. I'm waiting until it dries out a little so it will be easier to sweep off. Oh, and he peed, too!"

"Somebody needs to train that dog! I guess that's what I can do when you're not here any more. I'm not sweeping poop off the porch every day. I'm tired of hearing Dad complain about Jack. HE'S the one who said we'd take him!"

On I went, stepping over the fresh poop pile. Down the four steps. Onto the sidewalk, toward the green garage people-door. And here came Jack! Puppy Jack! Bounding across the boards of the porch, so happy to see me! So excited to see Dusty the cat, crouched under a shelf, over by Gassy G the auction grill, past the puddle of pee that Jack was blamed for now.

Jack started yipping at Dusty. He does that. For attention. Or out of perturbedness. Dusty is the only cat that won't let Jack hump her. Whenever he comes around, she sounds like a vicious mountain lion, all growly and yowly and ready to roar like a big beast. The only sense Jack shows is not to get within swiping reach. But he doggedly (see what I did there?) stands his ground, yip-yapping and wagging his tail and darting forward and backward. I swear that pup has a one-track mind.

"JACK! NO!" He turned to look at me. Then resumed. "NO! JACK! NO!" That must have broken his concentration, because he turned his long little body towards me, gave Dusty one last pricked-eared look, and came dashing at me. All wiggly and waggly and grinning, to pounce on me as I stood on the sidewalk, him on the porch. Put his puppy paws up on my chest, his long tongue trying to find its way inside my mouth.

Who can resist a gamboling puppy? Not Val. No siree, Bob! I set down my purse and ruffled his fur, and hugged him to me. "Jacky Boy! Have you been swimming already this morning?" His sturdy-clawed digging feet were wet on my arm. And had left spots on my shirt. Then I saw them. The footprints he'd made on his way to me.

FROM THE PUDDLE OF PEE!

Yep, I was awash with Jack's pee. I was in a hurry, though. So I wiped my arms with a Puffs With Lotion in T-Hoe, and turned up the air conditioning. My shirts dry fast.

Somebody really needs to train that pup.