Before we were married, my fiancée and I thought it would be enjoyable to get a dog.
We’re both big fans of the show Frasier, and thanks to Martin Crane’s conveniently funny Jack Russell Terrier, Eddie, we decided we would find ourselves a Jack Russell.
“We can name him Niles!” I exclaimed.
“Or Daphne, if it’s a girl!” My then-fiancée replied.
We searched on Craigslist for a week before we found Miles (just ONE letter off from “Niles”), a six-month-old JRT who had been found roaming the ghetto streets of Wilmington, NC.
The lady who had been fostering him told us he was only 20 pounds.
And from his picture, he looked like he was only 20 pounds.
Then we met him.
He was not 20 pounds.
We didn’t care, he was so ADOWABOWL (as all dogs are), and we were determined to make him ours.
We’re not 100% sure of the breed he’s mixed with, but were certain he’s not full Jack Russell.
Why? Because now he weighs 60 damn pounds.
It makes more sense, then, to refer to him as a “Jacked Russell.” All that Russell energy crammed into 60 pounds.
A 6’4″ friend of mine came over to watch football one Sunday. Miles leapt up and bopped him on the nose. While he was standing up.
A Jacked Russell in an 1000 sq. ft. apartment, now with a 17-pound Rat Terrier (Crackers, my wife has blogged about him) as a sparring mate? Never a dull moment.
But I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
Jacked or not.