Growing up, my family had a beautiful border collie.
I remember the day we picked her up in town. She was from Jackson, Mont. We named her Jackie. I can’t sufficiently put into words what she meant to our family. She was part of it. As she grew up, so did we.
From the start, Jackie worked her way into our hearts. She was loyal, loving and ferociously independent. She wasn’t just my dog but my brother’s, mom’s and dad’s. She had this unique way of spreading her attention to all of us. And since we lived on a ranch, Jackie wasn’t just a pet — she worked.
We moved cattle and she’d run for miles with her tongue wagging, herding strays, nipping heels and keeping order. Believe me, for a rancher there are few things more valuable than a good cattle dog. She was that.
Jackie was special because she was a constant, steadfast friend. We’d wrestle on the lawn, and she’d growl like I was a killer mountain lion. My mom would open the window from the kitchen and peek outside to make sure everything was OK. It was. Jackie knew we were playing, and she never bit too hard. I always won our lawn battles, but I like to imagine Jackie thought she was the hands-down winner, too.
When it came to games, though, the thing Jackie loved more than anything was her Frisbee. I guarantee your arm would fall off from throwing that plastic disc before she’d lie down in exhaustion. She obsessed over playing catch with that thing. Even the word Frisbee would rile her up.
Jackie was the smartest animal I’ve ever been around, so it’s never made sense to me why a plastic disc ensnared her attention so completely. We had to hide it from her or she’d carry it everywhere. To this day, I can’t see a Frisbee and not think of her.
It’s not fair to call Jackie a pet. In a family of Frankos, she was a Franko. We raised her and she helped raise two boys. Jackie walked everywhere we walked, whether it was down to Grandma’s house, out to the river or into the bushes.
When we were older and riding motorcycles, she ran with us. Picture a childhood of bumping along a dirt road on a Honda 90. Right there next to you is a border collie, tongue wagging. Jackie was just a constant in our lives. Go and move handline and she’d tag along. Leave to rake hay and she’d want to go. My brother would spend hours and hours in a tractor and swather in the summer. Jackie would ride along.
She watched us leave for college, and I hope, at least until she was gone, Jackie made sure the house never seemed too quiet for mom and dad, even though we weren’t around anymore.
The day I found out Jackie had passed, I was walking around Washington-Grizzly Stadium in Missoula, Mont. Let’s make one thing clear. I am not a Grizzly. I didn’t have one item of maroon gear on me. It was early December, the quarterfinals of the FCS playoffs and the Grizzlies were hosting Weber State, back when the Wildcats had Cameron Higgins throwing for 4,500 yards and 36 touchdowns. Earlier that season, Weber had handed Montana its only loss of the year, a 45-28 beat down.
Who in their right mind doesn’t want to see that rematch?
I had never been to a game at Montana, the premiere FCS football venue in the country. As I was trudging around in a sea of maroon and overalls, my mom called with the news. The call itself wasn’t surprising. Jackie had been an old dog.
I thought of her today for the first time in some time. I had been thinking about football. And then Jackie popped into my mind, and I’m flooded with memories.
Funny how life and sports come together. Jackie loved her Frisbee, but she’d play catch with tennis balls, beach balls or footballs. Just as long as she was doing it with her boys.
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