THE COOPER REPORT, Vol. III: Cooper and Jack vs. Big Beasty

by Cooper JRTH Sneed

Part I: Good Riddance, Brandon

The other day, I'm just sitting on the couch, and Brandon comes out of his office and picks up my squeaky bone and chucks it at me. Hits me right in the face.

So yeah, I'm glad he left today to work in Chicago for a month. (Ed. note: Five days.) Because his office is really just a converted bedroom in our house, he's all the bloody time catching me doing things I shouldn't do. For instance, sitting on top of the couch. I love the cushions. Love sitting on top of them. It's like sleeping on a cloud that's on top of a marshmallow. 

Well, Brandon and Katie don't like me doing that so much. Messes up the cushions. Selfish humans. Of course, when they leave me, I jump up there anyway. In their face. Jerks. But at least I'm not Jack. They lock him in a bloody crate! Not a crate with blood on it—that's just a term we Brits use like you Americans use other colorful terms.

But the point is—A crate! The indogmanity!!? So PETA, help me out here. Lock THEM in a crate!

I digress.

Brandon's getting wise. He figured out that when he goes into his office, I then jump on my marshmellow cloud cushion. And then I silently deploy my secret sneaky laugh. Muahaha.

Of course, it took him long enough. The other day, he was working on his laptop and sitting on the couch, and I still got up there for 10 or 15 minutes. Three times. 

But today he caught me. Also three times. The first two, eh, whatever. He just yelled at me and pushed me off. 

Then he came out like five seconds after catching me the second time, and there I was. I knew I was busted. I thougth about jumping off, but he didn't walk at me like he did the first two times, so I just sat there. Stared him down. Little game of chicken, you know. Figured I'd finally get on top in this little Sneed pack of ours. 

That's when the squeaky bone hit me in the face.

I thought nasty words and then, Man, if he could have thrown like that in college, he'd still be playing baseball with his brother. Stupid bloke.

Part II: Jack the Dumber

In other news, my new younger brother might be even more stupid than Brandon. Let me name the ways:

1. When we walk, he walks into me. Like, every five feet. It's a walk, little Jack. Not a wrestling lap. A walk, around the neighborhood. If you would stop making Brandon and Katie dance around us—actually, that is pretty funny. They trip and step on each other's feet and each tell each other to keep their stupid dog away from theirs. Okay, it's not really that bad, but man, they are clumsy sometimes. 

But still, Jack, if you'd stop spending half your time walking sideways, we would probably get a couple more laps out of the clumsy buggers. But noooo, you have to be all "I want to play with Cooper I want to play with Cooper!" Of COURSE you want to play with me. Who doesn't? But you can't all the time. Sometimes, just walking is good. Ooh, I need to write that down. That's profound. Oh, wait, now I'm rhyming! Sweet lands, where is a pen and paper! Oh, right, I'm typing this. There it is, right there in front of me. Oy.

2. Whenever I get called for treats—TREATS! TREATS! Ooh, I want one now! Blast!—or chewbones—Blast! Now I want one of those!—or just some good ol' belly rubbin', here comes Jack, he and his fat self, lumbering into Katie or Brandon's way, licking everyone's face and wapping himself with his eight foot long tail. Seriously, I've seen snakes that scare me less than that thing. 

3. And yeah, he chases that tail. Round and round and round he goes. And then he gets dizzy and runs into something. 

4. He also runs into things when we play chase. In the yard, it's usually the gutter drain. In the house, it's usually the couch. It's a wonder he can still see straight. Or maybe that's the problem. 

Part III: Jack the Dumber vs. Big Beasty the Beast

Speaking of walks, Jack actually did something not entirely idiotic the other day. Borderline brave, it was. We were out for a trot, me and him—tugged here and there by Brandon and Katie, of course, they never let us do anything fun by ourselves. Like a thunderstorm from Hades, here came this bloody huge dog. Looked like a pit bull mixed with a boxer mixed with a horse, it did. And it wasn't a nice pit bull/boxer/horse mix, either. 

Charged right at us, roaring, mouth ready to chomp, and not in the playful way. I went after him, but Brandon ruined that because my leash got all tangled in his legs. So Jack sprang to our defense. It was glorious. When we went to the dog park the other week, he ran away from big dogs. And here he was, taking on Big Beasty. 

He only got in a nip, because Brandon, being the overprotective, worrisome human that he is, grabbed the thing and choke-slammed it to the ground. No fun. Not that that stopped Jack from letting Big Beasty know exaclty how he felt about him attacking me. Us, attacking us. Katie grabbed Jack's leash and dragged him away, but Jack lunged right back in the big jerk's face, barking his fat little head off. Made me proud, that.

Meanwhile, Big Beasty kept trying to go after him, but had some troubles on account of not being able to breathe because Brandon had him in a chokehold. Lucky for him—I was about to get into him at that point, you know—his owner realized what was going on and ran out of the garage and grabbed him.

And just like that it was over. Happened in like, six seconds. When we got home, I felt even prouder of ol' Jack. We didn't notice it until then, but he'd gotten gashed pretty good by Big Beasty, right over the eye. Pretty sure he still dreams about it. What else could he be barking and growling and running at in his sleep? 

But you know, I wasn't mad at Beasty then. We dogs don't really know right from wrong unless our humans teach it to us, you see. And Beasty, his owner hadn't taught him right. When he got grabbed, his owner screamed at him and beat him in the head a few times. We could hear it even after he got back in the garage. 

So while yes, I am grateful we survived, I couldn't hold it against Beasty. No, what I want to do is go back and give that owner a nice little talking to. Same goes for all those paranoid people who throw pit bulls into this "vicious killer dog" stereotype just because that jerk Michael Vick and his Bad Newz Kennelz used them to fight each other.

We learn how to treat others by how we get treated. Treat someone like Big Beasty with hate, and hate is all he knows.

Meanwhile, in reality, pit bulls are the sweetest dogs. Take my Haze, for instance. She looks like she's half-horse, too. She weighs 80 pounds and when she barks it's like God is coughing. And buddy, she really doesn't appreciate it when Brandon puts me on her back and tries to get me to ride her like a horsey. But she'd never take a snap at him. Oh, never. All she really wants to do is lick your face and for you to rub her fat tummy and, if she's lucky, to grab a crumb that falls from your plate. 

So yes, I would like to give Master Beasty a stern talking to. I want to sit him down and put my paw in his face and—DOG! HEY, YOU, DOGGG!!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WALKING IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE! I TOLD YOU YESTERDAY THIS IS MY HOUSE. MY! HOUSE! YEAH, YOU KEEP WALKING!

JACK! BRANDON! THERE IS A DOG WALKING BY OUR HOUSE AGAIN! HEY! 

(Ed. note: Oops, meant to close those blinds.)

Well, this has been The Cooper Report. Until next time, don't think Brandon is actually that brave. Sure, he doesn't flinch in the face of Big Beasty, but I saw him out there cutting the grass the other day. A little bumblebee lands on him, and he ran inside screaming like a three-year-old girl. 

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This has been THE COOPER REPORT. Cooper Jack Russell Terrier Holloman Sneed is a, well, Jack Russell Terrier. He thinks he's British. You can contact him on Facebook and at goodsportsmail@gmail.com.