JACKSON

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He was, resoundingly, a foster fail. And one of our greatest, permanent additions.

It was just over a decade ago when I got the call about Jackson, as I was out on an early spring trail ride in central Massachusetts with some of my friends. “He’s 6 years old,” my friend said, “a silky terrier. And he needs to find a new foster home. Stat.”

Turns out that Jackson and one of his then foster brothers didn’t quite get along, and so my friend—who at the time ran an amazing animal rescue based in the south—wondered if I’d be willing to take him in “for a little while.”

Of course, it didn’t take me very long to respond. I had two other little dogs at the time—and had already adopted a few dogs from this friend. Sure, a little dog like that? Wouldn’t take long to find him a final place to land, I thought.

Turns out, Jackson would find his forever home with us.

And so it was that—for 10 years—Jackson joined our merry, ramshackle pack, holding his own with a menagerie of other canine members—German shepherds, pitbulls, labs, hounds, scrappy mixes, other little dogs. From the start he showed a penchant for fruit—apples, pears. Whatever he could sink his little teeth into, even when said pieces of fruit were almost bigger than him.

Not too long ago I was saying to my best friend how daily time seems to drag sometimes yet pass in warp speed when measured in years. Maybe that’s why I was taken by surprise over the weekend when Jackson suddenly, and precipitously, began to fail. I knew, almost immediately, where—and when—we would have to end.

And I was reminded, again, of the phrase that always came to mind when I thought of my friend Jackson: “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight. It’s the size of the pear in the dog.”

At the end yesterday—at a remarkable 16 years—Jackson finally had to relinquish his grasp on citrus. And we had to relinquish our grasp on him.

Godspeed, Jackson. We’ll be saving all our fruit for you until we can meet again.