slice of life story

The Ballerina Tiger Whippet Incident Convinced Me Our 15 Pound Jackchi Thinks He Has 999 Lives to Spare

It’s always the humans who need the “dog” training

Our Jackchi, Nugget, is one year old, thinks he has 999 lives (take that, Cats!), and has probably used a quarter of them up by now. Nugget tried to prove his immortality again to me this morning when I least expected it.

The October autumn chill slipped in through closed windows last night while we slept. I snuggled deeper into our new comforter — embroidered black thread on white cotton clouds. The fan clacked and clicked on my husband’s nightstand.

At 1:00 A.M., I jokingly said, “Could you please be quiet?”

He humored me with a sleep-laugh and turned it off.

Morning sunlight began to seep through our slatted blinds and we stirred, tossed, and turned until my alarm rang at 6:15. The first day back to school after breaks is notoriously difficult for all four of us — my husband, 11-year-old daughter, and 14-year-old son.

This first morning after Fall Break went without a hitch.

I drove my 11-year-old daughter to school with a Spotify playlist inspired by “Thriller” for our 20-minute drive. We discussed which scary movies we want to watch this week. Up for review are Poltergeist, The Exorcist, IT, The Conjuring, Beetlejuice, The House on Haunted Hill, and possibly Lamb, but she’d have to sneak into the cinema.

“What? Why?” she asked.

“You have to be 17 to see R movies. 13 to see PG13 movies.”

“That’s stupid,” she replied.

“Well, Simon Dillon says sneaking into the cinema is a rite of passage, so we’ll make sure to do that sometime, but you’re 4'9” and don’t look anything like 17 right now. Sorry.” I was thinking Not Sorry! Thank the Maker you don’t look like you’re 17 yet.

We agreed on viewing IT tonight.

“Bye! Have a great day. I love you!”

She rarely gives me words. She gifted me a head nod and walked into school.

I sang to Prince’s “Kiss” and Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” on the way home, brainstorming articles about the enneagram and music artists who go by one name, but that’s for another story.

It warmed up to the 50s Fahrenheit (10s Celcius) while I drove. Juno, our 60-pound rescue mutt and Nugget, our 15-pound adopted Jackchi, greeted me at the door with intense longing.

They were hungry for breakfast.

After I fed the dogs their food mixed with water and CBD treats, I sat down in my newly renovated office/mudroom, which I will soon baptize as MY Writer’s Nook. The sun shone into my office as I opened my laptop to check out all my tabs: Twitter, IG, Medium, my Buttondown newsletter, email, and the like.

The dogs enjoyed their kibble and I let them out the back door, which is in MY Writing Nook. Nugget wanted to play the In-N-Out game.

Nugget whined to go outside.

I let him.

Nugget whined to come inside.

I let him.

This repeats every 5 minutes for hours or until I get aggravated and move away from my office.

Nugget whined to go outside.

Whine, scratch, whine, scratch, whine, scratch.

“Okay, fuck it!” I said looking at Nugget. “I’ll take you for a walk now.”

Nugget and Juno excitedly ran to the front door, happy with my announcement. I secured Nugget’s leash and apologized to Juno.

“Sorry, Juno. You can’t come. You all are terrible on leashes. Only one at a time.”

Yes, I know I’m the one who needs training.

Nugget tugged the leash and began to lead me along.

Yes, I know that’s not how it’s supposed to work.

Because I’m me, I wore what I slept in both to school dropoff and on this walk. Imagine a middle-aged woman with teal cat-eye glasses, a sloppy bun, a feminine mustache that I can’t seem to obliterate no matter what, Boho second-hand soft drawstring pants, and a shirt from a conference my dad went to in Thailand a few years ago that says, “The same word for L❤️VE” with braille, sign language, and the Thai word (I’m not sure which language).

My sockless feet were protected by my favorite brown loafers, which have been coming apart at the toe for a year, and I’d previously glued together, but they’d come apart again. For some reason, I think Lindsay Rae Brown, who I almost called Lindsay Lohan (what?) will understand this attire perfectly.

8:30 A.M in our neighborhood was unusually quiet. The sun continued to shine, birds sang, and Nugget pooped. He sniffed grass, random litter (Don’t fucking litter!), and eyeballed the neighborhood with glee.

Did I mention he’s a bolter? When given the chance, he’ll bolt out the front door, gate, car.

Bats, owls, and The Tree of Life windchimes caught my eye as we walked by neighborhood homes. I’m sure I talked to Nugget and no one, as I’m prone to do. When I saw the small grey neighbor-dog, Sherman, I said to no one in particular, “I haven’t seen Sherman in a long time.”

Nugget didn’t notice Sherman. I kind of wanted them to meet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a lythe man with a lythe dog walking away from us. As we got closer to Sherman, the lythe man turned towards us. Many ballerinas live in our neighborhood and I figured he was one. At his side was a beautiful tiger-striped Whippet puppy.

When Nugget spied the tiger puppy, he pulled hard and broke out of his collar.

That has never happened before.

After running up to the ballerina and Whippet, Nugget gingerly picked up a stick, and proceeded to play You Can’t Catch Me!

The Ballerina worriedly said, “She doesn’t like small dogs or puppies.”

I said apologetically, “He loves dogs,” and shook my head. “Are you a ballerina?” I asked awkwardly.

“Yes,” he replied, perhaps suspiciously?

The Whippet, stood regal, in her tiger brindle striping. An obedient queen.

Nugget ran circles around us with his, “Yeah, I know I’m bad. It’s fun and you can’t catch me” expression plastered all over his smug little face.

We couldn’t catch him. So here we were, Sherman’s librarian dog-owner who I haven’t spoken with in forever and a ballerina I’ve never met.

“I’m vaccinated!” I assured them as I got in the personal space of Sherman, The Librarian, The Whippet, and The Ballerina.

They humored and pitied me.

“I need to get to work,” the Ballerina said.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been calling the trainer for weeks. Obviously, I’m the one who needs training.” I hung my head in shame and drooled at the beautiful Whippet.

“She’s beautiful. What kind of dog is she?”

“A Whippet.”

“Where’d you train her?”

“She was trained when I got her.” A trained puppy? Brilliant. Why didn’t I do that?!?!?!! I cursed myself for not being smarter, but also resigned myself to loving Nugget to the moon and back.

The Ballerina and I chased Nugget, tempted him with pretend treats, and bigger sticks. I ran a literal circle and threw my hands up.

Nugget’s face was getting smugger by the minute.

“This isn’t going to work,” I said.

Nugget decided to use another life and run into the busy street. I ran with him as a truck headed our way. The driver hung his head out the window, “That’s stupid!” he called out.

I hung my head in shame.

“I’ve got to get to work,” The Ballerina repeated with less patience and more anxiety.

“I understand. I’m sorry. We live near here. Maybe this will work.”

And, I chased my dog home.

I chased him with my achy middle-aged woman legs that hate to run and my un-bolstered boobs jiggling about. Chased him to the front door where Juno was whining in jealousy the whole time we were gone, according to a disgruntled husband’s text message.

“Get in there, Beast!” I shoved his bottom in the front door and secured it shut.

I silently completed the walk of shame, rescuing the leash and name tag from the middle of the road. Sherman, The Whippet, The Librarian, and The Ballerina were gone. Dammit, I wanted to meet the ballerina.

“Dammit, Nugget! That makes me not want to walk you.” I sighed.

I called the dog trainer who I’ve been calling and emailing for weeks.

This time, she answered.

She soothed me.

She trained me.

I worked with The Beast for 15 minutes as she instructed.

It turns out Nugget’s smart. He gets Sit and Stay.

It’s always the humans who need the training.

Thank the Maker this dog has 999 lives.

¹Added to the list after the incident when Danielle Loewen kindly video chatted with me to help up the visual aesthetic of Age of Empathy’s publication page. Thank you, Danielle. Also, thanks, Smillew Rahcuef for reteaching me how to create footnotes.

Aimée Brown Gramblin is the founder of Age of Empathy. She became a memoirist in her younger years and is writing the stories out now in middle age. A regular contributor to AOE and The Memoirist, Aimée is also a late-blooming pop-culture enthusiast; she’s a contributor to FanFare and The Riff. With a minor in art history, she occasionally publishes art-centric nonfiction.

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