I remember Jazz. When we first met, I was more enamored of his older, stockier brother Joey with the black coat and the white-tipped tail. But Jazz was always more the gentleman; besides sporting a handsome white chest and matching spats, he instinctively knew to poop in the corner. This, coupled with his runty stature (my Mom didn't want too large of a dog), was enough to earn him a place in our family. His only blemish was a crescent smear painting a reverse J from the nape of his neck to the edge of his right shoulder blade, a definitive mark that I admired simply as God's artistic license in forming this particular creature.
He was my dog first, because it was I that had wanted him first. After our dog Sam died, my parents didn't want to get another right away. Sam was never my dog. If anything, she was my Mom's dog. My mother, tired of so many boys, would find some solace in her bond with Sam and they would often band together against the masculine influence of the rest of us. Still, I missed Sam; she was like an older sister to me and I was always a dog person, so I yearned to fill the hole that had been left by Sam's departure. So I begged and pleaded for months until my parents and I finally reached an agreement. At the time I was in 7th or 8th grade and--although school was comically easy--I was a disorganized and undisciplined procrastinator. Thus our deal was that if I could routinely complete my homework and chores in a timely fashion for a month straight, then we would get a dog from the local shelter. Of course, I followed through and my parents ultimately held up their end of the deal. Coincidentally, a litter of Lab mix puppies had been born just in time and so Jazz was chosen to join the McCarthy clan.
In hindsight, I sometimes wish I had chosen a different name for Jazz. His name given at the shelter had been Jeb, but we hadn't liked it much and decided to change it. But I hadn't anticipated the frequency with which Jazz would be interpreted as short for Jezebel--an altogether undesirable name even for a bitch. Yet, sadly, Jazz had been without his testicles since puppyhood and so bore no major physical attribute to separate him from his feminine counterparts. Nonetheless, it turned out that Jazz was a fine name for such a fine dog. Jazz--at least my favorite jazz--is smooth and mellow with the occasional pop of adrenaline and as our Jazz grew up, he lived up to his namesake.
Jazz, my dog, was born a bastard to a lonely black Lab in the Charlottesville Albemarle SPCA on Bastille day, exactly 215 years after the French gained supposed closure to a bloody revolution. Having witnessed the birth of a Lab litter before, I can't imagine this was nearly as bloody, but I expect the mess of afterbirth and placenta served as sufficient carnage to honor the significance of the day. We never knew the father, but the single mother was given ample support in his stead by the staff of the animal shelter, who helped raise her puppies on cold concrete floors that reeked of cheap dog food and hand sanitizer.
So when we took Jazz from the only building he had ever known, a place of steel grates and concrete floors, he found comfort in our unfamiliar home in the rigidity of the wooden floorboards. For months he would not lie or sleep in his bed or the carpeted living room. But we spoiled him with hugs and dog treats, pancakes and ear-scratching; He was the baby of the family and we accordingly adored him. We gave him a variety of sappy nicknames, the best of which were "Booboo Baby," "Squckers," "Ba'y Doggie," and the tributary "Jazzy J." This excessive doting culminated in his becoming quite the aficionado of canine luxuries. In addition to his assorted delicacies and regular massages, he soon took to lounging on the carpet and eventually the couches and even beds whenever he was feeling especially sneaky. As he continued to grow (far larger than my Mom had hoped), his sneaking skills were further honed in the kitchen as unwary guests or forgetful family members would leave some morsel within the reach of his ready tongue. Perhaps his worst culinary conquest was an entire bottle of gummy vitamins, which, although certainly delicious, resulted in a mouthful of hydrogen peroxide followed by a wave of bile and liquefied gummies. Jazz was not pleased.
Despite these impulsive guilty pleasures, Jazz was always bright. He never lost the ability to find an inconspicuous potty spot and he was a quick learner, a talent that rewarded him not only with the title of valedictorian at the All Things Pawssible Training Center, but with respect in the human and dog communities alike.
I think Jazz's greatest discovery was the outdoors. Once he became accustomed to our backyard, he loved to tear around, darting in figure eight patterns around the trunks of trees and legs of trampolines. Some days I would chase him until I caught him and I would hoist him from the ground, legs squirming, and rest him across my chest. Then I'd roll back to the ground and turn him loose again to repeat the beloved game. As he grew stronger and faster, catching him became rarer and often he would end up chasing me.
Although Jazz did grow substantially throughout his first year, he never looked very different, always maintaining the supple skin and sleek coat of a young pup. Even as his chin began to gray in later years, the rest of him remained largely unchanged. Everyone would comment on how handsome he was and it soon became a regular complement my Dad would give him. In fact, we all noted with wonder how Jazz seemed not to age. Our family's fascination with Jazz's youthful appearance brought us eventually to the question of his parentage. We had been told by the shelter that he was likely sired by a shepherd mix, probably predominantly Australian. But this theory was early on discredited by his size, a good head above the average American Lab, which was his mother’s breed. We were all at a loss until someone outside the family suggested that he was a Labernese--an uncommon cross between a Labrador and a Bernese Mountain Dog. Snobby dog breeders will say that such a cross is pointless, because the general result is a usually monotone Lab perhaps with white feet or chest, but with a more docile demeanor (characteristic of the Bernese). But as far as I'm concerned, such a result is more than desirable. Imagine a black American Lab with a beautiful longer-haired coat, white paws, chest and underbelly, and a calm, affectionate disposition and you have our dog, Jazz. Clearly these dog breeders have no experience with the Labernese breed. And so "Our Little Labernese" was added to our list of nicknames for our favorite puppy.
Even though he became more easygoing as he aged, certain aspects of his personality remained young like his appearance. One ritual of Jazz's that he practiced from an early age was the Prance. Whenever Jazz received or retrieved a prize--particularly with bones--he would prance around the room, showing it off to anyone who would take note and swinging his head playfully back and forth when petted and praised for his accomplishment.
Jazz loved attention or "lovin's" as we called it. He loved his nicknames, chest and belly rubs, and especially ear and rump scratches. He coveted our attention so much so that he would even become envious if he felt someone was getting more of our attention than he. In moments of jealousy, he would jump up on us when we hugged and let out a demanding low growl. And when my parents weren't around, I would let him up onto my bed to sleep for the night, one of his favorite special privileges.
With growth and love came confidence and soon Jazz became bold enough to escape every now and then in order to explore the surrounding neighborhood. Fearful for his safety and fully aware of his naivete, we would chase him down, armed with treats, and either corner him or entice him with the treat. But we knew he was smart and so we became less and less concerned over time as he stayed clear of the real danger of the roads. But ever so steadily Jazz's radius of comfort grew wider and wider until one day he chose to cross the street. We heard him squeal when it hit him and all came running to find him sitting there, trying to move himself off the road with a badly broken front leg. With the charitable help of our fellow dog-loving neighbors, we succeeded in getting Jazz to the vet in order to set his broken bones. From then on Jazz was always wary of cars. Particularly the year or so directly after the accident, Jazz would stop on his walks and stare as cars passed by on the street.
Despite his early emasculation, Jazz was always adamant about his status as a male. He was forced to wear a cast after his brush with death and--seeing as the cast was on his front leg--he was unable to lift his hind leg to pee. This distressed him so much that he refused to relieve himself for nearly two days. When he finally did, he made sure that no one was watching and that he was at least standing, not squatting like a girl, so as to lessen the blow to his manly ego.
Jazz always loved being around people, especially his people, us. So his hardest year must have been 2008, when we went to New Zealand without him. He was left with one of our fellow dog-loving neighbors, Mike Evans, who had been my 9th grade English teacher and a longtime family friend. As much as he loved the company of Mike's dogs, the many opportunities to steal food and the softness of a mattress to sleep on, Jazz seemed to be waiting for us to return all year, to return like we always had after plane rides and vacations to Florida or California. So when he saw us again he did remember, so much so that he was ecstatic upon seeing us again.
Since beginning college, my time with Jazz has been limited, but I’ve often looked forward to seeing him on break or the occasional weekend home. We used to split the responsibilities of feeding and walking Jazz, but once I went away to college, my Dad assumed the brunt of the duties. But when I returned home, I would feed him every night and walk or run with him at some point during the day. And, of course, I would never hesitate to show him a little lovin’s with a scratch behind the ear or a rub of the belly.
People often describe feeling love as butterflies in your stomach, but from my experience, I’d say love is more like leeches. Like a breath, it starts in your diaphragm and works its way steadily upward and outward until it fills your chest cavity and you can feel it pulsing with each exhale. There’s a tautness, a squeezing, a vacuum that builds in pressure within, like a fleet of leeches latching on one by one in your lungs. And often love brings the tears. In fact, whether you gain, lose, remember or realize it, love is the only cause for real tears. It’s why fathers cry when their wives give birth, why football players cry when they win or lose the Super Bowl, why Jesus wept when Lazarus died and why I wept when Jazz died.
True to form, Jazz died because, like any dog, he was often ruled by his stomach. A putrefying deer carcass had been lying on the train tracks for some weeks. Jazz had been there many times before on walks and previous escapes and he knew it was there. So one night he snuck out when the back door was ajar and went to town on the deer carcass. But—unlike cars—trains are massive and they do not stop quickly, especially not for dogs. So Jazz was not so lucky as he had been with the car in the street five years ago and so he died that cold January day at seven and a half in human years.
We all miss Jazz so much. I see him still lying in the shadows from the corner of my eye. I hear keys or bells jingle and I remember the sound his dog tags would make when he trotted along. I wish I could stroke his head one last time or nuzzle my face into his belly or hold him like I did when he was a puppy. But I can’t. At least, not for a long while. The last time I saw Jazz, he was lying halfway under a white garbage bag so as to cover his back legs, where he had been hit. I had one last time to cradle his head in my hands, one last time to say goodbye and then he was gone, buried under the earth, returning to dust as we all must someday.
But Jazz’s death spoke to me in a very personal way, besides the fact that he was my dog. Jazz had died because he was acting impulsively and following his stomach. Coincidentally, I had just been through a period of turmoil in which I had also been following my proverbial stomach. I felt that a message was sent specifically to me with Jazz’s death. Put simply; don’t follow your stomach, Conner. Follow God. Because one day a train’s going to come. And that’s just why I can never be ruled by my stomach. Because one day a train will come with Satan at the helm. And if I don’t look up in time, if I’m not aware, that train will hit me. So, for God’s sake, for Jazz’s sake, and for my sake, I pray that I will not follow my stomach, but that I will fight the good fight, that I will run the race and finish. This is my prayer for myself and for you as I remember Jazz.
