Once upon a time I had a Jack Russell puppy. People kept telling me she'd
settle down when she got older. She didn't.
I hesitated about posting this, because I think everyone who knew her already
knows, but she's been a presence here, on SFF Net, since the first year --
through my posts, through my news group when I had one, and on chat/IRC -- so I
think it's right to post here.
She's been always been part of my life. When I moved into the first place of my
own, a house in East Launceston, she helped me unpack.
She was named after the princess in the Aladdin movie, although I changed the
spelling because 'Jasmine' is a little too feminine for a JR. In the JRTC of
Aus stud book, she's Nikki Rastabelle, tan & white, smooth coated bitch, 30cm
high, 35 long and not afraid of loud noises.
We moved to Mowbray soon after, at the last place we looked at. Even in a flat
rental market, no one wants dogs in a flat. But it turned out to be a good
location because the obedience club moved to the racetrack just down the road.
She was a busy little dog: obedience every Sunday, all breeds shows most
Saturdays and somewhere in there Fun Days with the JRTCA. Lure coursing, which
became racing at the greyhound track in between official greyhound races. She
loved to run. On our fun days, I had to start her off later than the other dogs
so they had a chance of winning. In the ANKC standard, 30 cm/12" is the maximum
height for a JR, butthe JRTCA allows working dogs to be higher, and many of
them were up to 16". She still ran them down, and pushed her way through the
pack to get the lure.
We moved to South Australia, to Adelaide, soon after that. I was going over to
study and the cost of freighting a dog, even a little dog with her own crate
and kennel club discount, was beyond me though. I thought Jas would be staying
behind, until my father helped out. This was were we first got to know people
here.
A few months later, we're back in Tasmania. For a while living between my
mother's place and my sister's house, while her husband was in the army. Jaz
alterntated between sharing a yard with Syd (mother's woolly JR, who showed her
how to get through fences while she showed him how to chase sheep) and sister's
Belgian Shepherd. After a few months we got our own place, a three bedroom
house with proper internet access, which to a little dog's annoyance I'm sure.
Just a few more months, and again we were moving, down south. Here in a
inner-city conjoined cottage, we finally had a backyard again. And lots of
walks, along the narrow streets of North Hobart, up the far-too-steep hills of
West Hobart and through the bush-covered hills of the Queens Domain. This is
where were when, at eight years old, Jaz got pyometra. She was too sick to eat,
too sick to take an interest in tennis balls but she was still keen to go for a
walk, even if she was barely moving. $600 later and she was back to her old
self again, if a little knocked-around and more grey-haired.
Then almost six years after we moved in, the cottage was sold. The housing
market was booming, the rental market had tightened and no where I'd want to
live would allow a dog. If I hadn't had a dog, it would have been much easier
to find somewhere. So it was either get rid of the dog or leave the city I
loved. Many tears shed, at the thought of doing either, but I believe when you
get a dog you make a commitment to look after them as long as you can, so we
came north. For a while, staying whereever we could find room until we moved
into this place.
It was soon after that, that I got my first digital camera and a Live Journal
account. Many photos of the little dog were posted. She loved to pose, a born
show-off, and she kept appearing in photos that weren't intended to have her in
them.
The 10th August was her 14th birthday, which I see as the big one in dog years.
She bounced through that. So she has grey hairs above her eyes, she can't
always jump onto the bed and there's usually aches and pains most mornings, but
(actually I think that describes me as well :) she loved her walks, she loved
disembowelling tennis balls, she loved going outside, coming inside, just being
alive. Every thing still had to be done to the full, like any good terrier.
Then, well, you know what happened. She got lethargic. Her back legs went. Many
taxi trips to the vet. She picked up again. I went down to the dog training on
Sunday morning, to watch a graduation test, and took her with me, thinking
she'd sleep in the car, as she had for the previous two days. But no, she
wanted to run around, even though her legs wouldn't go where she wanted them.
After a few attempts, she got it worked out and was staggering around quite
happily. She posed for photos when I pointed the camera at her. When we came
hime, she was tottering around the house and running up the stairs.
Then at 4 pm, she went down. Throwing up, generally miserable and just wanted
to sleep. By 5 am, she was screaming constantly. I patted her, she went quiet.
I got her into a more comfortable position and she settled down. I rang the
vets first thing and got an appointment at 9.45 am. At 9am, she was sleeping,
quietly. And she never woke up.
We buried her in my mum's yard, with her lead, her food bowl, a tennis ball and
my old jeans. Everything she needs.
People ask me how old she was. When I tell them 14, they make noises about her
being old, at the end of her life. She wasn't. She was active and happy and
still full of life. Even when she'd been dead for 9 hours, she looked more
alive than many dogs.
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