By Neil Lurssen
I have adored all my dogs. Most were gentle souls and easy-going pals. One or two were maybe not so gentle. One who got me into more red-faced situations by far was Jack, my big black Lab – a free spirit and rebellious character still remembered with affection, head-shaking and some awe by our family and old friends even though he left us many years ago. Jack was very unlablike.
I should have realized that Jack would be different on the day we chose him from a weeks-old litter of identical little black silkballs. How do you select a puppy from a wriggly bundle, all looking identical? Nobody told me. Jack separated himself from his siblings and ran over to greet – or maybe confront – me. I got the puppy piranha-teeth treatment on my hands and decided right then that this had to be my boy – he chose me! The bleeding would stop soon, I figured. The breeder marked one of Jack’s toes with green nail varnish and assured me it was a good choice – we could collect him when he was weaned.
Fast forward to a bright summer’s day when Jack had grown rapidly into a rambunctious adult, strongly built, assertive and very sure of himself. We had taught him some basic manners and a trick or two but he still chose to conduct himself as he saw fit. In the hope of calming him, we adopted Nova, also a black Lab, spayed – and Jack’s total opposite in temperament. Apart from the fact she had been banished to the shelter by a farmer because she killed and ate his chickens, Nova was the sweetest, softest, slightly overweight old thing. We scoffed at the chicken story until we found her sitting smugly in the yard with dove feathers sticking from her mouth.
The day in question was warm but fresh, Cape Town weather at its best. Jack loved swimming – but was not keen on others doing it. He spent much of the morning in the backyard pool with our two boys, making sure they were safe and nudging them to the steps. It promised to be an interesting day. My wife Jean had landed a job she wanted – Cape Town advertising rep for a large company located in another city – and the CEO was in town. He wanted to visit us in our home. I will call him Jonathan. It’s not his real name because I am sure he would not like this story to get about.
I was told that Jonathan was a dapper and dignified fellow who dressed impeccably, moved in elite circles, and conducted himself with the easy confidence of education and money. The figure at the front door was even more impressive than I expected. Tanned and trim for a man of late middle-age, his full head of hair sprinkled with grey, he was clad in a white sports coat, tan slacks, a striped grey shirt and blue tie. He smiled hello and looked splendid, as though he had just stepped out of the social pages. The plan was to serve tea and scones on the patio near the pool. My job had been to make the lawn immaculate by raking leaves and removing any deposits made by the dogs during their morning ablutions.
This was done – but there was a big wrinkle. Jack was missing. I feared he had escaped over the fence again – his obsession. When he did that I had to get into my car and search the neighborhood until I found him, but I couldn’t now because of our important guest. What to do? He solved the problem himself by jumping back over the gate. My relief was very short-lived. Still dripping wet from his swim, Jack had discovered on his rambling the turds of some animal and, in big dog fashion, had anointed himself by rolling in it. He was covered in it and his own scent was successfully disguised.
Before I could grasp the situation, Jack saw Jonathan and decided he really liked this guy. He bounded over to give our guest the big Jack welcome. A hug. If he liked you, Jack jumped up and hugged you.
Water from the pool would have been bad enough. But Jonathan’s white jacket was decorated now with Jack’s discovery. I heard myself shriek Jack! No! NO! This was followed by a lengthy silence. Jonathan turned even paler than I, almost as white as his jacket used to be. His eyes wide, he glared at the damage and then at me. Eventually Jean suggested calmly that we go inside to see what we could do. Whether or not her cleaning plan worked I cannot remember. I don’t remember what Jonathan said. Or how or if he was cleaned up. All I recall is sitting around tense, appalled and wanting the day to be over. Very decently, Jonathan never mentioned it again in all the years that Jean worked for him.
It was not the first time that Jack’s impetuous behavior had landed me in a pickle. Before Jack came to us, Dr. Chris Barnard had carried out the world’s first human heart transplants at Cape Town’s Groote Schuur Hospital and was famous everywhere, his face on the cover of Time Magazine and so on. Medical news was suddenly hot and I was one of the news reporters assigned to the beat by my newspaper. My editor stood at my desk one day and said, “I hear stories that Barnard can be very volatile to work with, snapping at nurses, throwing instruments about. See what you can find out – and don’t screw it up!”
Personally, I liked Barnard a lot and I didn’t want to write anything negative about him but I could see he might be demanding and short-tempered in the operating room. I couldn’t find anyone to support the boss’s rumors but eventually a member of the transplant team agreed to answer some general questions. I did not confess that I was a reluctant muckraker. He told me to come to his house as he was too busy during the day to see me. He lived near a big park in a leafy suburb and, for reasons that I still regret, I decided to take Jack with me that evening. Jack would wait in the car and afterwards I would take him to the park.
The doctor met me outside his house. “Make this quick,” he said. “I have to go out tonight and I cannot be late. So what do you want to know?” I switched on my tape recorder and at exactly that point, Jack – smelling the trees and grass – leapt through my open driver-side window and took off for the park. The only words burned onto my tape that night were “Oh shit! Gotta get my dog,” I yelled as I ran after Jack. I well remember the annoyed look on the doctor’s face. Jack disappeared quickly. People in the park gazed at me with puzzled sympathy as I ran among the trees shouting “Jack! Jack!” Eventually, as evening gloom settled, I found my dog and he greeted me warmly.
When we got back to the doctor’s house there was nobody there and no-one answered the door bell. The next day my boss asked me how the interview had gone. “The interview?” I said, “Yes, well, there’s this park, you see . . .”
I could end here but I could also tell you about the time the family went to a nearby lake to try out our new windsurfer and Jack came along – of course. It was a very popular lake – called a “vlei” in the local lingo – and all kinds of small craft were in use. I was about to launch when a group of kayakers came paddling by, engaged in a furious race. 
Jack sat up when he saw them and decided these guys were in big trouble. Before I could stop him he plunged into the vlei on a rescue mission and reached the last kayak. He climbed halfway on the stern and pawed at the paddler who fortunately for him – and me, I guess – was wearing a heavy life jacket. So he survived Jack’s paws, chased him away with his paddle and yelled at me: “Do you own this damn dog?!” Actually, he didn’t use the word “damn” but something more colorful. “Dog? What dog?” I protested. To my relief, the irate paddler took off angrily, much further behind than before.
When Jack came ashore, we rushed him soaking into the car, folded the windsurfer sail, put the craft on the roof rack and moved to the furthest corner of the vlei we could reach.
Jack got into many scrapes and exploits down the years and we loved him dearly. Eventually he went grey around the gills and lived to a good old age. To this day when members of my family chuckle for no apparent reason it may be that they are remembering Jack.
