Jack, The Loyal Sidekick

Jack, bless his heart, is living proof that not every dog is kissed on the forehead by Athena. Roxie clearly got the goddess’s blessing—brains, strategy, timing, the works. Jack, on the other hand? Let’s just say he’s more of a Koalemos kind of guy. Koalemos, in case you missed that day in Greek mythology class, was the god of foolishness and poor judgment. And if Koalemos ever needed a mascot, Jack would already be waving a banner with his goofy grin.

Now, don’t take this the wrong way. Jack is as sweet as they come. He’s loyal, loving, gentle—everything you want in a farm dog. But intelligent? Let’s just say if Roxie is the CEO of Canine Operations, Jack is the unpaid intern still trying to figure out how the coffee machine works.

Both dogs love to chase balls. Roxie approaches it like she’s solving a complex military maneuver: eyes locked, calculations spinning, wind speed factored, trajectory mapped. She’s basically Athena with fur.

Jack? Jack just thinks, Oh boy, ball! and then kind of. . . wings it.

To save our shoulders, I bought one of those automatic ball launchers—the kind that flings tennis balls thirty feet with all the subtlety of a medieval catapult. It has a distinctive sound as it revs up: a whir that rises like an orchestra tuning before a grand finale. Roxie, ever the strategist, times her sprint perfectly. Just as the sound crescendos, she’s off like a rocket, already halfway there by the time the ball leaves the machine. She leaps, she soars, she catches mid-air—it’s poetry.

Meanwhile, Jack is crouched in front of the launcher like a turkey who just volunteered for Thanksgiving—wide-eyed, clueless, and about to regret his decision. He waits. . . waits. . . and only when the ball pops free does he start running. By then, Roxie is already doing her victory lap with the ball in her mouth. Jack trots back empty, panting happily, as if he’s also won something. (He hasn’t. Unless “participation trophy” counts.)

Here’s where things get dicey. If I’m not standing right there to coach him—“No, Jack, move over, buddy”—he plants himself directly in front of the launcher. Not beside it. Not near it. Dead center.

The machine winds up, whirs dramatically like Poseidon himself is about to hurl a wave, and then—THWACK!—the ball smacks Jack right in the forehead. Every. Single. Time.

He blinks. He stumbles. Sometimes he sneezes. And then he looks around with this dazed expression that says, “Who threw that?” Meanwhile, Roxie is circling like an F-16 fighter jet demanding, “Excuse me? Where’s my ball?”

I sometimes wonder if Jack’s lack of brilliance is innate or if it’s simply the cumulative result of being beaned in the noggin by thirty-foot fastballs. It’s not exactly a brain-health program, let’s put it that way. One good season with the launcher and I’m pretty sure Koalemos is clapping in approval from Mount Olympus.

Still, Jack doesn’t let it get him down. He’ll happily line up again for another round, tail wagging, ready to get nailed in the forehead all over again like he’s auditioning for a doggy version of America’s Funniest Home Videos.

But here’s the thing: Jack may not be the brains of the outfit, but he is absolutely the heart. He’s the Samwise Gamgee to Roxie’s Frodo—loyal, steadfast, and occasionally baffled about why they’re walking so far just to throw away jewelry. He’s the Robin to her Batman, the Watson to her Sherlock, the guy who doesn’t quite understand what’s happening but is absolutely determined to be there for the ride.

At the end of the day, Roxie may outthink him, outmaneuver him, and out-fetch him. But Jack will never be out-loved by anyone. And maybe that’s why Athena skipped him—because loyalty, sweetness, and an unshakeable devotion don’t come from wisdom. They come from the heart.

Even if that heart is housed in a head that’s been bonked by a ball launcher one too many times.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.