Blackjack And Pearl...Tails of Great Importance

Chapter One...Thursday Morning

Two dogs were swimming. Not for recreational reasons; for survival. The black one had just stolen a Texas-sized porterhouse steak from the Christian Camp Community BBQ, and they were fleeing for their lives. The white dog followed as a good accomplice should, although she hated the water. Their unspoken ploy was to cross the cove to the other side, head up through the stand of pines, then weave in and out of the trees, until the coast was clear of people and other dogs. There, they would no doubt haggle over who would eventually eat the steak, growling obscenities only other dogs would fully appreciate.

It was pure coincidence when the white one noticed the splashing of water out the corner of her eye. Her instinct wrongly assured her it was a fish. It also instructed her to swim fast as dogly possible, towards the reward. Imagine the look on the drowning man’s face, as he came face to face with a huge, white, polar bear of a dog.

Pearl was just as startled as he was. Her thick Akita ears flattened to her head in fear. She dog-paddled backwards first time ever, with no idea of what to do next. The man wailed a yelp for help, and started splashing and slapping the water in such a panic, that Pearl stopped swimming for one full minute. All ninety pounds of her hung suspended in the water. Her compassionate Akita brain wanted to save him, but she was scared and didn’t know what to do.

Back on shore in the cove, the black dog had finished devouring the stolen porterhouse. He had begun digging a hole to  bury the bone and conceal all the evidence. The steak was huge and the dog, known to the human population as BlackJack, was stuffed. He was about ready to plop down on his haunches and rest a bit, when his animal instinct changed his mind. Dropping the bone, he darts to the water. The afternoon sun reflecting off the lake, churns into ripples as he glides through like a canoe, fat stomach and all. Holding his narrow head high, swallowing and snorting lake water, he nudges into the petrified Pearl. In the non-verbal language of dog talk, they devised a plan to rescue the drowning man. It was sheer heroics and water acrobatics from this point on.

Although the man had a vague idea of what was happening, he was useless with his own survival. He was caught between the dream and battling for his life. A force was moving him through the water, pulling and tugging. When he came to, he was on a sandy beach, face down. An odd obstruction made his chest hurt, making it a struggle to breathe. Each time he tried to take a breath of air a sharp pain attacked his lungs. A searing hurt ripped through his jaw making it impossible to close his mouth. At last, he coughed up the lake water and laid there unable to move.

  It might have been the siren that awoke him, or maybe the chatter of unfamiliar voices. He was only catching partial phrases now and then which made no sense to him.

“Sir... hear me?...we’re....roll...on the stretcher. ...gonna...alright,” a woman’s voice said.

“One...two...three,” a man counted.

He was gently flipped over, lifted from the sand, and carried on a flat surface, face up. Opening his eyes he saw two paramedics carry him on the stretcher and slide him into the ambulance. They drove him away with the red light flashing and siren screeching. The man had many questions, but was too exhausted to ask or figure out the answers. So he slept.

By this time, Black Jack and Pearl were clear to the other side of the lake. Their coats all clean and shiny, and feeling spry. The heroic rescue of the man completely forgotten as they romped in and out of campsites and garbage cans, chasing ground squirrels, stealing an Adiddas tennis shoe, and other hoodlum dog stunts. The unlikely pair of dogs were so opposite in character and disposition, it made for a rascally team.

Blackjack had wavy, shiny black fur and was forever on the run. At home, he was constantly in hyper-motion, in and out of the trash. Pulling all kinds of stinky, ungodly things from the garbage cans. Rancid and moldy. Items meant to stay there, hidden and not talked about...like tampons.

He was known to fish the aforementioned item gently out by its string, as if reeling in the prized catch of the day. Then running about in a gleeful frenzy, he would scurry in and out of the house, screen door slamming, taunting the chickens, the hens gettin’ all noisy and excited, and then barrel on down the driveway. A blurry black, Jumpin’ Jack Flash of canine bliss. The nearly forgotten tampon swinging apologetically, side to side from his maniacal grinning mouth.

Always...always out of reach. That dog knew how to tease and he did it with such pizazz. He could out run anybody or any dog. You could never catch that darn mutt. You just had to adore him. If not he would drive you crazy, but Blackjack always came back. When the game was over and he was clearly the victor, he would come sliding in the front door, sly as the sun settling down for the evening and ready for dinner. Panting and dusty; downright dog dirty.

Pearl was more a sophisticated breed. Pure white coat with enough undercoating and insulation to withstand winter in frozen Siberia. She wasn’t known for poking around garbage cans and such. Pearl was more watchful, aloof and stoic. She would never let on about her interest in the pork roast left on the counter. At the perfect moment of entitlement, she’d gently grab the roast off the counter. Never a commotion, never a mess. Eating the roast slowly, licking and savory, not wolfing down instantly, the way Blackjack did. When she got caught, her air of nonchalantness was remarkable. No guilty look. No excessive tail wagging or remorse. She enjoyed the roast. She got caught. Oh, well.

The setting mountain sun reminded Pearl of dinnertime. She was starving. Blackjack had steak, while she had nothing all day. The dogs with their uncanny directional skills, found their way home as usual. Slipped under the hog wire fencing, where they had previously dug as their escape route, and trotted, two tails wagging, back to the house.

Stay tuned for Chapter Two next Sunday