STUNT DOG DEMONSTRATION

I was with Jackson when he gave his remarkable demonstration. A
sparkling summers day. Late summer when unrelenting heat is spent
giving way to more amicable conditions. This sweet California morning
came with early brightness, promising rewarding exploration along
forgotten mountain trails.

Monday morning. Jackson chose to break his chains of bondage
confounding the evil slave system that inhibits true expression from a
free spirited artist. He called in sick. With freedom thus ensured for
a day, he determined to take some photographs of California high desert
country.

Jackson was my friend. I accompanied him on his artistic voyage. My
work ethic was never questioned. I work Saturday. I take Monday off. A
simple convenient arrangement.

Jackson had a dog. A fine old fellow, delighted to break routine for a
few hours and participate in our photographic odyssey. So it was then.
Jackson, myself, various cameras all necessary photographic equipment
and our good companion Old Red the pit bull terrier. Off we sailed on
that fine morning to meet whatever challenge lay ahead.

Must have taken about half hour driving along quiet country roads
before we reached the little turn out where the mighty Chevrolet impala
would anchor safely until our return.

The old car was a monument in Jackson's life. Somewhat battered. Dark
red paint faded in places but beneath a shabby overcoat beat the heart
of an eight cylindered champion. In the drivers door a small hole was
covered with a band-aid. A permanent reminder that Jackson's expertise
with a thirty eight-caliber pistol left room for much
improvement.

We fussed with equipment for a few minutes and released Red. Before his
temporary freedom could begin, Jackson delivered a stern lecture on
social responsibility. Red grinned amiably, having received similar
directives as daily routine for many years. Jackson shaded his eyes,
gazing at a distant hill and considered the prevailing light. Red
lifted his leg and pissed happily upon a small sage bush.

Into the hills we went. Jackson searching for an unforgettable panorama
that would surely be revealed. Red, with no interest in any grand
vision scampered ahead delighting in his unexpected freedom.

I believe it was an hour at least before we stopped for a break. French
bread, adorned with thick crudely cut slices of sharp cheddar cheese. A
bottle or two of cool dark beer definitely enhanced our simple snack.
There is a quality of stillness in these high desert hills and canyons.
Echoes of living perhaps, from far distant times when Indians lived in
these lands. We sat for a while in peace. Each of us absorbed with our
own thoughts.

I reached back lazily through five, six years to a time when Jackson
and I first met. A chance meeting, discovering that we lived within two
streets of each other. There were many shared interests, including
mutual a fascination for the history of the great American Pit Bull
Terrier.

At that time I happened to share my somewhat limited house space with
eight of these much-maligned animals.
Two adult "yard dogs" and a sudden influx of ten-week-old pups. Six
rough, belligerent and lovable little babies that I now found myself
responsible for. Suffice it to say that the house was overflowing with
dogs.

My newfound friend took a male pup from the litter. A sprightly
intelligent animal, bright yellow eyes and a dark red rust colored
coat. For several days Jackson pondered. Rejected many alternatives,
studied with intense concentration before arriving at a suitable name.
With a defining stroke of originality he decided to call him Red.

Time to move on. Remembrances of years past now gave way to keen regard
for narrow sandy trails waiting ahead.

We reached the crest of a rounded hill. Simultaneously we stopped, each
for our own purpose. To my left, rough sloping ground dropped away
steeply to reveal a clearing several hundred yards below. A small truck
was parked there tailgate down. Distant but unmistakably came rippling
sounds of music chattering voices and laughter.

Jackson glanced quickly below then held his left hand in front of his
face, fingers spread in a gesture reminiscent of a traffic cop at a
busy intersection. His interest was not in the clearing below but the
scene before him.

About ten yards ahead a natural gully perhaps ten feet deep, probably
several yards wide. Beyond that the terrain smoothed with short dried
grasses and a few blackened tree stumps. Uneasy reminders of a great
fire that sweped through these hills a few years ago. In the middle of
that somber field rose a jagged outcropping of sandstone rock. It was
the stony monument that excited Jackson's interest.

Our soon to be award winning photographer shrugged the pack from his
shoulder. With unflinching gaze intent upon the rocky vision ahead, he
bought the old Nikon to his eye. Dropping to one knee, switching to the
other, flat on his stomach, up on his haunches. Certainly, a perfectly
framed photograph would eventually be recorded if; on this occasion he
had remembered to load a roll of film.

I looked away from these athletic demonstrations to the truck below. A
red shirt and a brown shirt could be seen, little else was revealed at
that distance. Red shirt waved several times. I waved back to
acknowledge the greeting. It seemed that both shirts were now moving
steadily upward, in our direction.

Old Red spotted that distant movement, heard their music perhaps and
decided to investigate the source of this disturbance. I grabbed him
about his shoulders calling to Jackson to pass me the lead. Red is an
amiable fellow wishing harm upon no living creature, except possibly
the neighbor's cat across the street. However from previous encounters
with nervous people and enthusiastic Pit Bulls, constraining Red until
our visitors had arrived was a favorable course of action.

Jackson came lead in hand and with a flourish passed one end through
the hand loop and attached the snap to Red's collar.
I stared at the lead that Jackson held. His hand passed through a
slipknot that he had just formed. To what purpose though? There was
already the hand loop to hold. Let me have him I said. Ill hold him
until you have finished shooting.

Jackson grinned. "No problem, watch this. I trained him." Red and
Jackson walked purposefully to the edge of the gully. Jackson bent
down, pulled the loop wide and slipped his left foot through the noose
pulling the lead tight about his ankle. Red was now secured to
Jackson's leg and sure enough the dog lay quietly beside his master.
This unorthodox method of restraint had presumably worked to secure Red
on previous occasions. My vague misgivings were probably
unfounded.

Two figures came slowly into view. A woman, red shirt with a boy, brown
shirt. Attractive forty ish, the boy perhaps eleven or twelve. I
smiled. She smiled back.
"Hope we are not disturbing you". Her voice husky, slightly out of
breath. Red turned and smiled. Everyone smiled except Jackson. With the
camera to his eye he was probably not smiling.

Most pieces are now in play but the end game is not yet revealed. Two
hikers, two strangers, one Pit Bull Terrier. There is one more player
to meet in this great drama.

I started to reply that my friend would only be a moment or two. As I
spoke the last piece on the board was revealed.
A sudden rustling and snapping of twigs, a short cry of surprise from
the woman as a large gray-white jack rabbit bounded across our path
seemingly to materialize from beneath her feet.

Red hurtled like a flame of vengeance after the disappearing rabbit.
Jackson's left leg became momentarily horizontal, parallel to the
ground like a ballerina or martial arts expert. His shoe flew into the
air. The lead, instead of tightening around his leg as intended, was
wrenched instantly over his ankle. Shouting, cursing, flailing limbs
and a small cloud of dust.

Jackson disappeared from our sight. The only witness to his presence in
this quiet place was a cheap tennis shoe and a small backpack.

I stared at the woman. Her mouth was moving but no sound escaped her
lips. A moment of silence like a lake of calm water stretched before
us. The boy, transfixed with joy and admiration was grinning like an
idiot. "Oh cool, way cool. Did you see that mom? Did you see the way he
did that? Did you see the dog? I just knew they were stunt men. That
dog was trained wasn't he?" I nodded in reply. Oh yes I said, he was
trained all right. My friend trained him personally. Please excuse me
for a moment though; my pal may need a hand.

Peering over the edge of the gully about eight feet or so below,
partially obscured by dry stunted desert vegetation, lay the wreckage
of a potentially award winning photographer. I scrambled down to the
thorny bushes where Jackson was detained. The boy followed behind
me.

My friend was now attempting to stand. He looked like an evil enraged
troll coughing, grunting, half crouching and covered with dirt and
leaves. The kid babbled excitedly unaffected by that horrifying
vision.
He extolled many heroic virtues of Jackson's daring leap. "Oh that was
so cool mister, will you be doing it again today?"

Jackson turned his head slowly. Stared at our enthusiastic visitor for
several long seconds. He wiped away blood from his nose with the back
of his hand. He meant to say, "Go get the hell away kid" but trying to
clear his mouth from dirt and grass it sounded as if he mumbled "gd day
kid." The boy grinned hugely. "Your Australian? Oh that's too much; my
mom was born in Australia. "Yeah" he continued, "I gotta go tell her
that you're an Australian stunt man". Up the side of the gully he
scrambled to relay the joyous news to his mother.

I thought Jackson was going to cry. He took the canteen, rinsed his
mouth and splashed water into his face. He glared at me with fury. "You
sonofabitch" he said, "you push me over the side then tell that moron
kid I'm an Australian stunt man. What the hell is wrong with
you?"

Took me a while to explain. It was necessary to repeat many details
before he could accept that old Red had committed such an unthinkable
act of betrayal. I sympathized, told him how glad I was that he was not
badly hurt. My innocent remark uncorked a further tirade of
indignation.

"Hurt! Oho please. Everything's just fine," he said with heavy sarcasm.
He Continued "Hell my ribs are broke, my nose is busted, my hip is
dislocated my mouth is jammed with sand and shit and a goddamed cactus
is sticking out my arse. Oh no everything is just great with me." How
about the camera then? He glanced down at his faithful Nikon swinging
from the shoulder strap.
"Looks OK, probably a lot better than I am." Handing him the canteen
again, I noticed that the lens mount was bent beyond redemption. I went
to retrieve his shoe.

The shoe was found the easily, just a few feet from the where Jackson
preformed his magical disappearing act. He was not alone in his ability
to disappear though. No sign of our visiting mother and son. Suddenly
came the worrying memory of Red the vanishing Pit Bull.

Jackson was reunited with his left shoe. I walked behind as he made his
way with some difficulty to the top of the trench. There we stood for a
minute or so when he pointed to the brow of the hill.

Mother red shirt appeared with two boys in tow. There were two red
shirts now for she held the lead that secured our highly trained stunt
dog.

Jackson was temporarily distracted by a grand vision of revenge. Red
and the rabbit. Both secured with chain around their testicles
suspended above a boiling cauldron of tar. This veil of fantasy was
soon replaced by reality. The merry trio was upon us, mother and son
contributing much laughing and chatter.

Introductions were made. Mary told us that she had come with her son
Larry to finish a school nature observance project. They were intending
to grill a burger or two when Mary realized that neither of them had
any means of lighting the coals. "Yeah" said Larry. "We hoped you would
have matches or something. But soon as I saw mister Jackson dive into
the bushes I knew you must be stunt men."

Jackson placed a fatherly hand on the boys shoulder. "Used to do a lot
of training like that son. But now I just like to keep my hand in. Not
stunts for movies though, my training was for the real thing." I stared
at the re invented Jackson. Found myself listening to tales of bravery
and devotion to duty. No longer a featureless installation engineer,
pathetic slave to the Phone Company but agent Jackson. Fearless
operative for a highly secret branch of the US government.

Young Larry was lost in admiration. Mary with her head tilted in an
attitude of confusion and disbelief, was probably not convinced.

"Did you work together?" Larry looked at me wonderingly. No, I
confessed. The government is far too scary for me. I am just not tough
enough. I have seen the training they require for special agents.
Mister Jackson had to sit in an ant's nest for half an hour without
making a sound. They stuffed his mouth with uncooked broccoli, made him
run across a meadow in his underwear and threw old shoes and vegetables
at him. Gasoline was poured in his shoes and?Jackson glared furiously
at me ending further description of secret agent qualification. I shook
my head. "Larry" I said. I didn't even make it past the ants
nest."

The lad glanced at me quickly, smiled a fleeting condescending smile as
if to acknowledge and forgive the weakness of a lesser man. Mary
suppressed a giggle. "It was a wonderful demonstration," she said
slowly.

We chatted for a while then walked together in pleasant bantering
camaraderie down the slope to Mary's pickup.

A small respite, relaxing for a little time to savor burgers and hot
dogs while enjoying the most pleasing company.
I wanted to provide some exercise for the two cameras that I carried.
Of course Jackson could not continue although he protested
otherwise.

Mary came with a simple solution. She elected to drive the battered
Jackson to his house. Vehicles would be exchanged later, perhaps down a
beer or two and commiserate with my old abused friend.

Their truck slowly found a path leading to the road. A cloud of gray
dust eventually obscured the vehicle as it prepared to confront
civilization again. I was not alone. Red was to be my companion for the
remainder of the day. We were free. No longer squeezed between the
thumb and finger of other peoples schedules. Must have been five hours
at least before we returned to Jackson's house.

The porch light showed a piece of paper taped to the door. A note
explaining that Mary and Larry had gone to dinner with Jackson. Also
instructions to replace the door key and, would I please leave Red in
the house.

The small manufacturing company for whom I worked accepted a tendered
bid from the government. This required me to work many overtime hours
for the first six months of contract. I saw little of Jackson during
that time. Little of anybody else come to think about it.

As the weeks faded into months with summers pleasures soon forgotten
came winter suddenly approaching. Jackson came even more suddenly
approaching. One morning about six, as I made ready to leave for
work.

Uncharacteristically he refused offers of coffee and toast. Something
was not in place, no idle insults or chatter. Suddenly a premonition.
Old Red was gone. His dear companion had died.

I put my arm around his shoulder.
I truly am so very sorry I said. Jackson stared at me for some time. "I
truly am so very sorry as well" he replied. " I truly am so very god
dammed sorry that you are such a miserable, deluded, asshole".

All was instantly well with the world again. The righteous, obnoxious,
indignant and surly Jackson of old had returned. Then Red is ok? I
asked. "Yeah of course. He is doing just fine. As a matter of fact he
is looking a lot better than you ever did. Can't seem to reach you any
more." He continued. "Decided to drop by to see you. Tell you that I am
getting married."

You can't. I mean you don't know any girls. I stared in disbelief for
several seconds before a coherent conversation could resume. I grabbed
his hand and shook it vigorously. That's fantastic, congratulations
when's the date. Who's the girl?

Many seconds elapsed before he continued. "As a matter of fact old
buddy Mary and I decided to get married." Mary? I ran through a mental
list of Mary's that we had known. No Mary of any possible marrying
potential registered with me.

I stared. Oh Mary. Hey Jackson that's, great but when. He rolled his
eyes toward the ceiling shaking his head. "When was the last time we
got together, last time I saw you?" He asked.

Unable to recall, I shrugged my shoulders. "Remember that desert hike
months ago? Remember when I fell down the embankment? Do you remember
Mary?"

Suddenly the images were recalled. Oh yeah, course I remember. Old Red
kicked you into a ditch. That woman and her kid took you home. Jackson
nodded and sat down. He continued, "we have been seeing each other.
Dating for three or four months now. Just decided to get married.
Thought perhaps you would be best man."

I realized that at least an hour had evaporated in pleasant
reminiscing. My friend pushed himself up from the chair and walked
towards the door. "Gotta go."

Turning back he stopped for a few seconds then said "how about next
Wednesday? You and me both sick. Into the desert, take a few pictures
eh"? I nodded. Sounds good to me pal. Meet at your place in the
morning; pick up old red and head on out? Jackson smiled. "Give you a
call this evening then bout eight"??????..