Jack’s Big Adventure

“He was a beefy, auburn-colored hunting dog—butch but neutered—with a curled tail and a misaligned lip that gave him a mischievous smile. One Halloween, for the Art Bar Pet Party, he went as the big-balled alpha male he would have been pre-neutering—we wrapped boiled eggs in pantyhose around his waist. He strutted proudly, then ate the eggs. And pantyhose. Like everything that went through that little house in Melrose Heights, Jack appeared and disappeared at his leisure. It wasn’t until we got that new style digital answering machine that we found out exactly how far he went.”—Jenks Farmer

Plant People

By Jenks Farmer

Editor’s Note: Be sure to purchase Jenks Farmer’s 2023 book, Garden Disruptors: The Rebel Misfits Who Turned Southern Horticulture on Its Head.

COLUMBIA South Carolina—(Hubris)—July/August 2026—Melrose Heights was funky and cheap back in the early 90s. The little house Pat and I bought on Maple Street became a de facto crash-pad for wanderers. Plant lovers of all ilk showed up, curious about the ongoing construction of a big botanical garden in small-town Columbia. We bought an eight-foot-long, gold, flame-stitch 70s couch from an old Jewish couple’s condo sale, 50 bucks, to accommodate the drop-ins. For a while, a photojournalist from California kept the back room. Jack was always there. Drag queens, Mexican migrants, an international rock climber, everyone who came through loved Jack.

I traveled a lot, myself, seeking new plants for garden construction by taking $29 Air South flights to wherever they went in Florida. I’d rent a truck and load up with plants. The new migration of Mexican men into South Carolina was in full swing, so Pat was often down in Mexico reporting for The State. Jack—the mutt we affectionately referred to as a Rhodesian Redneck because somebody, sometime, said he looked like a Ridgeback Safari dog—held down the fort, but to keep track of him, we wired a tiny silver bell to his collar.

He was a beefy, auburn-colored hunting dog—butch but neutered—with a curled tail and a misaligned lip that gave him a mischievous smile. One Halloween, for the Art Bar Pet Party, he went as the big-balled alpha male he would have been pre-neutering—we wrapped boiled eggs in pantyhose around his waist. He strutted proudly, then ate the eggs. And pantyhose.

Like everything that went through that little house in Melrose Heights, Jack appeared and disappeared at his leisure. It wasn’t until we got that new style digital answering machine that we found out exactly how far he went.

Pat was down in Oaxaca for a few weeks, where most of the state’s much-needed new workforce was from. My job was punishingly hot work, so we started at daybreak. Jack was part of my morning routine. He would come in from his doghouse, watch me finish my coffee, and then we’d go for our walk at around 5 a.m. In dark, quiet Melrose, Jack didn’t even have a leash. He’d be a block ahead, sniffing leaves and recycle bins. If he found something good, later, while I showered, he’d sneak down the street, then I’d have to follow the silver tinkle in the dark, step into a neighbor’s yard, past the still open four-o’clocks by the recycle bin and find him looking up at me, smiling, from a ripped trash bag. I’d whisper-yell him back into our own yard.

During the workday, Jack stayed outside in a homemade doghouse. He knew my after-work routine: drop keys, dirty boots, and muddy cargo shorts at the back door, then listen to messages on the answering machine. He’d be outside, right below the window by the phone, staring up at the Venetian blinds like he could see me.

After work, mid-afternoon, we’d go for another walk and usually ended up in Five Points, at Adrianna’s for coffee. A crew of painters from the halfway house nearby loved getting some puppy time with Jack. If I had errands, I’d leave him with the painters.

Sometimes, we went under the train tracks, up the hill, through campus, and all the way up to the brand-new Hunter Gatherer Brewery on South Main, where we’d order bean dip, then bum a ride home.

One day, I had a big adventure that made me four hours late. I’d been asked by a friend to camcord the birth of her child, and things like that happen on their own schedule. Among the powerful moments, the rush and the screams, there were quiet times. During one of those, a guy in nurse’s scrubs handed me a piece of paper with a scratched note: Jack’s home.

Just after 6 p.m., I dropped my keys, clicked the answering machine onto play and saw Jack smiling up at me through the dusty blinds. Just like he’d been there all day.

The digital answering machine played the most recent messages first.

Jack’s perky ear stood up when we heard the machine lady say: “Today at 5:45 p.m., we heard a woman’s voice say, ‘Hey, this is Kim again. Your neighbor said that Pat’s away and that you were doing something at the hospital, so I left a message there, too. Listen, I dropped Jack off in the yard, and he’s fine, and the gates and fence seem fine, too, so don’t worry. I’ll walk by later and check again.”

I didn’t follow. This was just minutes before I walked into the house. Had Kim said “again?” She said she’d dropped Jack off? Left a message for me at the hospital?

Jack was in his usual waiting spot, down in the periwinkle patch below the window, looking up at me. He seemed all normal.

Today at 5:00 p.m. “Hey, this is Kim. I’m a photographer at the newspaper with Pat. There’s an employee picnic here and, for some reason, Jack’s here. He’s fine, he’s just going around from table to table, and everyone’s loving having a dog here. He did steal Dawn’s hot dog. Ahhhhuhhmm—we’re not sure why he’s here. So, just checking, call my desk, I’ll check messages before I leave.”

This was more baffling as The State newspaper office was over near the USC football stadium, five miles from our house.

Today, at 4:37 p.m., a deep male voice with an Ohio twang said, “Hey, Pat, this is Dave from up in Sports. I tried your extension but listen, your dog is at HG. Yeah, I know it’s early for a beer; I had to get away a minute before that morale-building cookout thing. Anyway, the waitress says she knows him, knows you, y’all, but can’t get in touch. He’s tied to a chair. I don’t know if I should leave him here? I think I’ll take him with me, he’ll be fine at the paper till you get back to the office.”

Today at 4:10 p.m.: “Pat, Jenks? I guess you are not right downtown. Listen, I’m going to tie him up out front, he keeps trying to go over to Sandy’s hot dogs. He’s fine. I put out water and got him a rib bone. Guess we’ll see y’all soon.”

Today at 3:37 p.m.: “Hey, are you downtown somewhere? Jack’s sitting by the kitchen door. Oh, this is Jennie at Hunter Gatherer. He’s just sitting there, looking in the door, smelling and smiling. I guess this means I’ll see you soon enough.”

Today at 2:35 p.m.: An unfamiliar, slightly agitated female voice said, “Just to let you know, he crossed over Saluda, stopped at Adriana’s and now he’s headed toward the bank. I hope he’s OK.”

Today at 2:25 p.m.: Same voice. “Um, hi, this is Amanda at the Gourmet Shop in Five Points, and your dog is here begging food from the guests at outside tables. Bothering them. You’re going to have to come get him. I read the address on his collar. I see you live kind of close, I hope you’re home. He’s bothering people, and I’m worried about him in traffic.”

As answering machine lady went further back in time, this evening marched on. I looked at Jack in the graying light. He stood up and circled, whined, then looked back up at me. Something about him seemed older, a bit more mature. He curled his tail tightly. He was past ready to get on with happy reunion time.

Today at 1:55: “This is Mike from Hilton Head Golf and Tennis! I’m offering you a fabulous free weekend!”

Delete.

I opened the back door, and Jack squeezed by faster than the hot August night air, ran a circle round the office, into the kitchen to check his bowl, and zipped back out to land on the flame stitch couch in downward dog play position, waiting for me to play-wrestle. He claimed that flame-stich couch and, from then on, all the wanderers who crashed on Maple Street slept with Jack.