Jack and Chili
Her name was Chili, a furry little Cockapoo puppy I brought to Jack while he waited for a lung that might extend his life.
Jack was living in Birmingham, Alabama, near the hospital where the transplant would take place, 766 miles from our home in south central Texas. A mere eleven-hour drive away. His breathing was labored, but he taught the tiny doglet to drag his size 12 house shoes from room to room and to use a cat litter box on the patio for her daily bathroom visits.
They became inseparable. They ate together, rode in the pickup together, shopped for groceries together, and went to restaurants together. Whenever anyone questioned the dog’s presence, Jack simply said, “She is my breathing air dog.”
End of story. They were seldom turned away. There was never any doubt which of the two was in charge. Chili quickly learned “Damn it, Chili” meant she needed to reconsider her behavior, at least temporarily. If Jack said it twice, she was to stop immediately, especially if she happened to be chewing on the tubing that carried oxygen to his barely functioning lungs.
Chili was not Jack’s first choice for her name. He wanted to call her Banjo, as in “going to Alabama with a banjo on my knee,” because that was where she sat as I drove her to Birmingham. But Chili suited her. Even at six weeks old, she was feisty, stubborn, and full of fire.
Every other weekend, I drove those 766 miles to see them, leaving Texas on Friday afternoon and returning Sunday night. Other family members made the trip as well, checking on the big man who was running out of air. Through it all, Jack’s sense of humor remained intact.
He drew cartoons, sent emails, kept his appointments with doctors, and suggested while they were replacing his lung, they might also replace his vocal cords. He wanted to sing, he explained, and the ones he had could not carry a tune.
The call finally came shortly after the beginning of a new year. By the time I reached Birmingham, Jack was out of surgery and in recovery. The next day, he was walking and breathing without supplemental oxygen. By the end of the week, we were back at the apartment, astonished by how quickly he was recovering.
At the hospital, he became known as “Jack Left” because he received the donor’s left lung. Another patient named Jack received the right one. We never knew the family who lost a son and, in the midst of their grief, gave Jack three more years of life. I remain grateful for their decision and for the gift that allowed him to come home to us.
After a month of recuperation, Jack and Chili returned to Texas. With air once again filling his lungs, Jack began building authentic chuckwagons. He was, after all, a cowboy. He had ridden on roundups, slept on the prairie, and eaten meals prepared by cranky cooks at the back of dust-covered chuckwagons over open fires. He knew that life well. For three years, he breathed, worked, laughed, and lived.
On the afternoon of February 29, 2004, Jack’s body rejected the lung, and he began his journey into the unknown.
Chili lived another fifteen years. She never allowed me to become theAlpha. That place had belonged to Jack, and as far as Chili was concerned, it always would.