When my boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird accepted Ajax, a four-month-old Airedale puppy from a neighbor who was moving away, man and dog soon became inseparable. For Ajax, a dog’s life was heaven. His luminous eyes shone in quizzical, mischievous anticipation, his mustache-framed mouth smiled permanently, and his wiry coat glowed like amber. He had rocket fuel energy and an anvil’s tolerance for pain. With Jaybird’s constant love and care, he grew quickly from puppy-size to pony-size, and had three modes of action — eat, sleep, attack. Anything that moved was prey, especially cars on a nearby road.
On countless post-car chasing occasions he limped home, bleeding and missing divots of fur. Once he lost half an ear. Determined to break this dangerous habit, Jaybird attached a burlap bag to a hubcap on his pickup, hoping that it would twirl the dog and end the dangerous habit. When he drove by, Ajax chomped down on the sack, flipped several times in a dusty blur, and galloped away triumphantly with a mouthful of burlap.
To the very end, he was what he always was: Ajax, the attacking Airedale
Once when a funeral procession passed, Ajax attacked in Airedale ecstasy and was hit by the hearse, bringing the entire procession to a halt. When the driver got out, the howling hound latched on to his coat’s long tail and shredded it. Atlas limped around in a cast for a month.
An advertisement for an electronic collar “guaranteed to break car-chasing dogs, or your money back” caught Jaybird’s eye, and he ordered one. Two spikes poking from a receiver mounted in the collar transmitted strong shocks when activated by a toggle switch on the remote control.
After securing it around his dog’s neck, Jaybird and I sat under a roadside shade tree, and Ajax, sporting his new collar, took up his usual ambush position. Soon, far down the blacktop road, an amorphous blur took shape in the rising heat eddies. Atlas crouched, one and a half ears rotating. When he attacked, Jaybird flipped the toggle switch. Instantly, Atlas cart-wheeled, landed on his feet, still in hot pursuit, and pogoed up and down as Jaybird repeatedly jabbed the switch, all to no avail.
As the years rolled by, Ajax finally gave up chasing cars, and spent his days snoozing in the backyard. One morning, as Jaybird was feeding him, an armadillo appeared. Despite age and arthritic joints, he attacked with all the gusto of his younger days, repeatedly pouncing on the creature, trying every way he could to get a tooth-hold on the armor-like shell. His excited whines increased in intensity. Suddenly, he yelped painfully, staggered sideways, and fell. At last, Ajax’s warrior heart was giving out.
Jaybird flew to his side. A dog trusts his eyes and ears, but when he really wants to know something, he trusts his nose. Ajax snuffed the old black man’s hands, looked his master in the eyes, woofed one last time, and resumed attacking in hound heaven. To the very end, he was what he always was: Ajax, the attacking Airedale.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s upcoming book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
The book will be available before the holiday season. Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (jimmycecilreedjr@gmail.com).
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
When my boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird accepted Ajax, a four-month-old Airedale puppy from a neighbor who was moving away, man and dog soon became inseparable. For Ajax, a dog’s life was heaven. His luminous eyes shone in quizzical, mischievous anticipation, his mustache-framed mouth smiled permanently, and his wiry coat glowed like amber. He had rocket fuel energy and an anvil’s tolerance for pain. With Jaybird’s constant love and care, he grew quickly from puppy-size to pony-size, and had three modes of action — eat, sleep, attack. Anything that moved was prey, especially cars on a nearby road.
On countless post-car chasing occasions he limped home, bleeding and missing divots of fur. Once he lost half an ear. Determined to break this dangerous habit, Jaybird attached a burlap bag to a hubcap on his pickup, hoping that it would twirl the dog and end the dangerous habit. When he drove by, Ajax chomped down on the sack, flipped several times in a dusty blur, and galloped away triumphantly with a mouthful of burlap.
