Sam and the Jackrabbit

by Terry Broxson

I recently bought into a new development of condos for 55 and older folks. I just barely qualified as I was only a few months past the legal minimum. Okay, it was 245 months or so past the minimum, but nobody asked for proof of age.

When the weather is nice, I like to sit on my fourth-floor balcony in the late afternoon or early evening and enjoy a drink or two of Gentleman Jack Daniels bourbon.

I was always Cat Daddy because my wife loved cats. I never walked a dog. It doesn't look too hard, but what do I know about dogs? Nothing.

I have a very nice neighbor, Diane, who has a very smart and good-looking dog named Sam. I have seen them walking many times.

This story occurred on a particularly lovely Sunday evening in the fall. Diane had recently broken her foot, and walking Sam was more of a chore. Often Diane's granddaughter, a college student, walked Sam.

As I watched from my balcony, I thought there was a tremendous drama about to unfold, or not. I was too far to do anything except watch. But rather than me telling the story, I thought it would be better to hear it from Sam's perspective.

Sam has not had the benefit of a highfalutin education like mine. I did try to correct some of his grammar and stuff. Please no snickering from the high and mighty editors with their red correction pencils!

THE GOSPEL, ACCORDING TO SAM

I want everyone to know that dog gospel and people gospel are two different things. I don't know about people gospel, but I don't think it involves squeaky balls and bacon, but that is enough philosophy.

The following events are what did happen on a beautiful Sunday evening. The sun was setting. It was clear, bright, and warm. It was the end of an almost perfect day. The Dallas Cowboys had won their football game.

It was almost perfect, but I was not with Mom doing our rounds.

Mom had broken her foot. Mom did not blame me cause that is how she is. But Mom went left at a curb, and I thought we were going right. She slipped and let out a yelp! At first, I thought it was a small french poodle we had met earlier.

I could tell right off Mom was in pain. I was worried for two or three minutes, and then I started looking for treats just in case she dropped one.

Poor Mom had to go to the people's vet and wear a boot on her foot. But at least it was not the ignominious cone around her head.

That Sunday evening, I was making my tour with young granddaughter. We had developed an easy cadence moving through the neighborhood.

As we approached the mailboxes signaling the end of the walk, I noticed two large ears out of the corner of my ever-alert eyes. A jackrabbit. He was as still as still could be.

My first instinct was to shoot out like a bolt of lightning just ahead of the thunder that was sure to follow. Instant visions of me bringing home this jackrabbit for Mom to cook for dinner and her gratitude almost overwhelmed me.

Almost.

My mind spun several thoughts at once. Dang, that was a Texas jackrabbit. It was pretty big. I never remember Mom cooking jackrabbit for dinner. Maybe jackrabbits are not good for dinner. Who has ever heard of jackrabbit treats? If I bolt like lightning, I might upset young granddaughter, and perhaps she breaks her foot.

Oh my, what a dilemma. Who would walk me on my daily rounds? Certainly not that old cat-loving coot who moved in down the hall!

So, working through my erudite thought process, I just decided to ignore the good-for-nothing jackrabbit. Maybe one of those yappy terriers in the building will get it. Maybe their moms know how to cook jackrabbit.

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