Jack's Big Adventure
Melrose Heights was funky and cheap back in the early ‘90s. The little house Pat and I bought on Maple became a de facto crashpad for wanders. Plant lovers of all ilk showed up, curious about the ongoing construction of a big botanical garden in small town Columbia. We bought an eight-foot-long, gold flamestitch ‘70s couch from an old Jewish couple’s condo sale, fifty bucks, to accommodate the drop-ins. For a while, a photojournalist from California kept the back room. Jack was always there. Drag queens, Mexican migrants, an international rock climber, everyone who came through loved Jack.
I traveled a lot myself, seeking new plants for Garden construction by taking $29 AirSouth flights to wherever they went in Florida. I’d rent a truck and load up with plants. The new migration of Mexican men into South Carolina was in full swing, so Pat was often down in Mexico reporting for The State. Jack– that mutt we affectionately referred to as a Rhodesian Redneck because somebody, sometime, said he looked like a Ridgeback Safari dog–held down the fort, but to keep track of him, we wired a tiny silver bell to his collar.
He was a beefy, auburn colored hunting dog — butch but neutered — with a curled tail and a misaligned lip that gave him a mischievous smile. One Halloween for the ArtBar Pet Party, he went as the big-balled alpha male he would have been pre-neutering — we wrapped boiled eggs in pantyhose around his waist. He strutted proudly, then ate the eggs. And pantyhose.
Like everything that went through that little house in Melrose Heights, Jack appeared and disappeared at his leisure. It wasn’t until we got that new style digital answering machine that we found out exactly how far he went.
Pat was down in Oaxaca for a few weeks, where most of the state’s much-needed new workforce was from. My job was punishingly hot work, so we started work at daybreak. Jack was part of my morning routine. He would come in from his doghouse, watch me finish my coffee, and then we’d go for our walk around 5 am. In dark, quiet Melrose, Jack didn’t even have a leash. He’d be a block ahead, sniffing leaves and recycle bins. If he found something good, later, while I showered, he’d sneak down the street, then I’d have to follow the silver tinkle in the dark, step into a neighbor’s yard, past the still open four o’clocks by the recycle bin and find him looking up at me, smiling, from a ripped trash bag. I’d whisper-yell him back into our own yard.
During the workday, Jack stayed outside in a homemade doghouse. He knew my after-work routine: drop keys, dirty boots, and muddy cargo shorts at the back door, then listen to messages on the answering machine. He’d be outside, right below the window by the phone, staring up at the Venetian blinds like he could see me.
After work, mid-afternoon, we’d go for another walk and usually ended up in 5 Points, at Adrianna’s for coffee. A crew of painters from the halfway house nearby loved getting some puppy time with Jack. If I had errands, I’d leave him with the painters.
Sometimes we went under the train tracks, up the hill, through campus, and all the way up to the brand new Hunter Gatherer Brewery on South Main, where we’d order bean dip, then bum a ride home.
One day, I had a big adventure that made me four hours late. I’d been asked by a friend to camcord the birth of her child and things like that happen on their own schedule. Among the powerful moments, the rush and screams, there were quiet times. During one of those, a guy in nurse scrubs handed me a piece of paper with a scratched note: Jack’s home.
