September 16, 2003
Jingles, the moonbat
It was sometime around Christmas and a cartoon movie played on TV one night. The story was about a little boy who wanted a dog for Christmas and his parents wouldn't get him one. Through some miracle, Santa brought the boy a dog, he loved it, the dog loved him and the parents decided that the boy could keep it.
The little boy named the dog "Jingles" from the noise that Santa's sleigh made in the sky that night, and they lived happily ever after.
After seeing that movie, Quinton wanted a Jingles of his very own. The BC and I discussed it. We already had two dogs, one cat, a turtle, four goats and a bunch of free-range chickens on the mini-farm. What was one more dog thrown into that menagerie?
She went to the animal shelter and brought home a very sickly pup. It was eat up with heartworms, pinworms, roundworms and the galloping trot. It lasted two days before it died. Quinton was heartbroken.
I'll never understand why the BC picked that dog out of all the puppies available at the shelter. I could tell something was badly wrong with it as soon as she set it on the floor and it's legs wouldn't support its weight. Both eyes were badly matted and its belly was as round and tight as a basketball.
"Good grief, Jennifer," I said when I saw the poor thing, "was THIS the pick of the litter? Look at that belly. This dog has more worms than Walt Geiger's Red Wiggler farm. It can't even stand up on its own. There's something badly wrong with that dog."
"Well, it looked like the dog in the movie."
Well, it looked like warmed over death to me, and I was correct. It croaked and required only a very small hole in the back yard for its eternal doghouse.
The BC went back for a second try and came home with a wild-assed black puppy that resembled nothing I had ever seen before. "What kinda dog is THAT?" I asked, as the maniac ran up and started chewing on my foot and growling.
"It's a mutt, but it's supposed to be mostly Black Lab."
When Jingles II grew to young adulthood, even the vet couldn't decide what kind of dog she was. My guess was part hound and part Dingo. If there was any Black Lab in her, the Dingo part ate it. She had sleek, black hair and her ass was jacked up higher than her front legs. She could run like a greyhound. She had a standing jump that went to my eye-level when she did her "boingy, boingy" thing to welcome me home from work.
She was completely brainless, too.
That dog proved to be a chicken-killing, hole-digging, drag-shit-back-to-the-house, car-chasing, cat-murdering, impossible-to-house-train, howl at the moon, animal-control-escaping, feral alien-dog. I have never known another one like her and I pray that I never do.
She killed all of my free-range chickens and scattered their parts everywhere. She dug up my yard like a back-hoe operator. She brought home shoes, socks, gloves, two golf clubs, shirts, blue jeans and one freshly-skinned deer hide, complete with eyeless skull during her neighborhood prowls.
I became famous in the Bureau of Missing Things. If you were missing something, just go to Acidman's house and ask if Jingles stole it. Usually, that's where it was. I collected what the dog brought home and put it in the garage. If nobody claimed it after a week, I went door-to-door asking, "Does this belong to you?" I usually found the owner that way. But it was humiliating work.
That dog just liked dragging somebody else's stuff back to the house. I never could break her of it.
She came home one Saturday morning yelping as if her ass were on fire. The BC and Quinton were gone to the grocery store and I was out in the North Forty weeding my garden. I went to check on her. She was doing the "boingy, boingy" at the front door and raising hell. I calmed her down and examined her. She looked as if she had a baseball-sized chaw of Red Man in one cheek of her jowl and she obviously was in pain.
I saw no blood, but I had my suspicions. "Ya got snakebit, didn't you? You were gonna bring a copperhead or a rattlesnake home, weren't you? You dumbfuck."
I fed her two raw eggs with aspirin in them. If the snake had enough venom, the dog is dead and there's nothing I can do about it except make her belly feel better and reduce the pain as best I can. If the dog is gonna live, well, the snake used up most of his venom earlier and the dog will be fine. The BC came home about then.
"What happened?" she asked.
"I'm pretty sure a snake got Jingles right on the muzzle. Look at that swelling."
"I'M TAKING THE DOG TO THE VET!!! RIGHT NOW!!!"
"Go ahead, but the only thing the vet will do is tranquilize the dog. It either lives or it doesn't right now. If the snake had been loaded for bear, the dog never would have made it back home. I think she'll probably be okay, but she won't be happy for a couple of days."
Jennifer rushed the dog to the vet. The vet gave the dog a wookie-shot and told Jennifer that the dog either lives or it doesn't right now. But he did confirm a snake-bite.
Jingles was very fortunate. The snake that bit her did not have a full venom load. She didn't quite stir up a dry-fire, but she came close. (By dry-fire, I mean that you can be bitten by a poisonious snake that has exhausted his venom recently, and you feel very few ill effects from it because he has no venom to inject. That's what happens in about three out of ten rattlesnake bites.)
Jingles survived the snake-bite but never became civilized and never grew a brain. After she outgrew puppyhood, Quinton never liked her very much. Jingles was too wild. So much for the Christmas dog.
When we sold the mini-farm and the BC bought her nice new house in the nice new neighborhood, Jingles did not like the small back yard with the privacy fence around it. She kept digging her way out to run the woods the way she was accustomed to doing. Roaming wide open spaces was the only life she had ever known. You can't fence a dog like that one.
The BC gave Jingles away (at least she SAYS she did). Quinton doesn't miss the dog at all, and to tell you the truth, neither do I.
That was one fucked-up dog.
All content © Rob Smith