A Hole in the Pack

A Hole in the Pack

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Since last week we’ve been mourning Jean Pierre.

He left this world two weekends ago, and we’ll miss him greatly.

He was sassy. He was saucy. He was insouciant.

He was feisty. He was fierce. He was courageous.

A small dog, he had a huge heart and personality. He was the terror of cats, squirrels and pigeons, and Joey’s playmate of choice. Together, they kept order in the cul-de-sac.

Jean Pierre’s favorite person, Martha, always had a new story about his origins: He was French. (Allons enfants de la Patrie, le jour de gloire est arrive . . . ) He was Vietnamese — his family had descended from French colonial dogs, and he’d had a brave and harrowing voyage from one side of the Pacific Rim to the other.

Regardless, his forebearers had caroused though several types of terriers with a taste of Maltese or Bischon Frise here and there.

He carried his tail like a jaunty white plume over his back. When his fur had been styled for summer his brown spots were defined. In winter, his silky fur cloaked him. Just back from the groomers, he wore a jaunty kerchief. One summer, he and Joey lounged around in matching Hawaiian shirts asking for the “Surf N Turf Special” for dinner.

There will never be a twilight when dogs and their people gather at the corner before, during or after walks when we won’t think of JP. Joey and I will never pass the HJELTE sports center turn off without thinking of the great runs we shared with him there with. Joey will never spy a mourning dove without wishing JP were there to help him catch it.

We’ll miss you, JP, but your spirit will always be running with the Pack.

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