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THE AMAZING ADVENTURES OF SAMMY THE JAMAICAN DEAD DOG by Peter Dean Rickards

   

 

THIS IS A RECENT PHOTOGRAPH OF MY DOG...SAMMY

 

I was returning to my house in Cherry Garden (a suburb on the outskirts of Kingston) when I struck him head-on, killing him instantly. Yes, I killed my own dog.

 


Needless to say I was VERY UPSET when I got out and discovered it was my Sammy. Initially, I thought it was someone else's dog or perhaps a goat but upon closer inspection I became convinced.

 

 

Same breed, same ears and I would have recognized those eyes anywhere. Even if they were hanging out of his head. I felt terrible. I loved that damn dog and after four years of loyal service I had paid him back by killing him. I felt that he deserved better. Subsequently, I've decided to show my respect for Sammy by taking him on a sightseeing tour across the country-his country, the country he never knew:

 

I scooped up Sammy and threw him into the trunk. Then I called the office and told them I wasn't coming in for a couple weeks. When I got home I fired the maid for letting him get out.

 

 

Unimpressed, I threw her things onto the front lawn and screamed:

 

 

I grabbed up my camera and went to say goodbye to my whoring wife Opal who was out on the veranda being idle. She said:

 

 

In Jamaica, some people from the lower classes (like Opal) often refer to a penis as a "'hood"- which is short for MANHOOD. But I had no time for that--Sammy was rapidly decomposing. So, I kissed her tenderly between her large breasts and left the house. I propped up Sammy in the front seat of the jeep and we started to drive across thee country.

As we drove I gave him little history lessons about Jamaica and he seemed to like it even though he didn't stick his head out the window the way he usually does when I take him out in the car.

 

 

Eventually, we arrived at beautiful YS Falls. I lifted Sammy out of the car and carried him down the slippery steps. Then I threw him into the cool fresh water for a nice swim. And, as I watched him there, kept nicely afloat by his swelled belly, I knew he was happy.

Swim dear Sammy, swim.

PART II

I had to admit. As much as I was enjoying my quality time with Sammy, I couldn't help but feel a little depressed that he might not be having as much fun as he might be having if he were still alive.

  BUZZ BUZZ..ROT ROT

 

But then I remembered the words my wise great-grandfather used to say to my great grandmother when cousin Hortense died while waiting for an appointment at the American Visa office :

 

"...there's good and bad in everything that happens Kitty-Belle. Although Hortense is gone, at least we don't have to put up with any more of his farting. All he ever did was come over here and fart."

Grandfather was right. There was good and bad in everything. I would be GOD-DAMNED if I was going to allow my stupid little insecurities to prevent me from being a good tour guide for Sammy.

SO...after Sammy was done swimming, I scooped him up and strapped him to the top of the car.

 

 

Wet dogs smell bad enough , but a wet dead dog is simply intolerable. I patted him on his head and we were off to the airport. After a very reasonable 8 hour drive back to Kingston, we arrived at the airport and soon we were flying high on an Air Jamaica jet and drinking champagne.

 

  "...care for some peanuts Sammy? They're honey roasted! "

 

I simply love flying to the north coast or Negril on Air Jamaica. I've really got to hand it to that Butch Stewart. He may be a little overweight and greedy, but he sure knows how to keep the white people happy.

 

'Ha! Ha! Wasn't that hilarious when Billy asked that beggar if HE could spare any change?! And then the SANDALS security shot him? Ha! Ha! Ha! I love this place.''

 

Hell, if it weren't for good ol' Butch, a lot of people might not be able to go back to Miami and share memories with each other on www.jamaicans.com!

 

Now that would be a real loss.

Anyway, Sammy was really loving the flight. The champange was superb and we didn't see one dark-skinned pilot so we felt really safe and secure...

 

The Stewardesses were great too.

Then we got a real treat. When I told the stewardess that this was Sammy's first flight across the island, she offered to let him see the cockpit and meet the pilots. Sammy didn't react much but I knew he was really excited, especially when they let him sit in the Captain's chair!

  WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

LOOK SAMMY! YOU'RE DRIVING THE FRIGGIN' PLANE!!!!

Everything was going perfectly. Captain Wixman liked Sammy so much that he took off the automatic pilot and placed the controls in Sammy stiff little paw. He did great for a while, but then, we ran into some unexpected turbulence and I think Sammy panicked.

OH NO SAMMY!! We're going to crash into Negril and kill everyone of those nice, economy-sustaining tourists on the beach down there!!!

MAYDAY! MAYDAY! Pull up Sammy! Pull up!

PART III

Things were not looking good in the least

Sammy was all frozen up and we were going down faster than the Jamaican Dollar.

"CRIMES ABOVE!!!, I cried as my lunch came rushing out of my mouth and nose and arse.

Meanwhile, four thousand feet below at Margueritaville, all the spring break geeks were too drunk to notice an aircraft plummenting directly towards them:

" Hick. Belch. Yo, Tammy I ain't coming here tommorow. I just saw some niggers who weren't workin' behind the bar."

As the cabin began to fill with smoke, I pleaded with Sammy to do something; anything to avert a disaster.

"Please Sammy", I screamed hoarsely, "go with throttle up! Go with throttle up!"

But it was no use. The G-forces were too much now and all Sammy was able to do was to sit there shake violently in his seat as the plane dove faster and faster towards the earth...

"Such a cruel lesson", I thought grimly to myself as I watched the last last moments of my life tick down to nothing. If only Air Jamaica had had the vision to train and hire more dead dogs instead of these spineless foreigners, then perhaps we would not be in this terrible predicament.

"Let this be a lesson to you too Butch Stewart! You racist against Jamaican dead dogs!"

The fumes in the cabin started to fill my lungs so I buried my head between my hands and waited for the inevitable. And then...the unbelievable happened:

 

"What the bumbarasscloth is going on in here!!!??"

 

I couldn't believe it! It was the fabulously wealthy BUTCH STEWART , CEO of Air Jamaica and part owner of the Jamaican economy (Chris Blackwell owns the Cultural sector).

At first, he seemed really frightened, but when he turned around and saw Sammy sitting in the pilot's chair...

...any trace of fear was instantly replaced by a profane rage.

I looked over at Sammy. I knew he was hurt, but before I could explain to Butch that this was Sammy's first trip across the island, he grabbed Sammy around the neck, tore him from the pilots chair...

...and hurled his carcass across the cabin.

Well, I didn't appreciate that one bit.

I don't care if Sammy wasn't flying the plane good. That still didn't give Butch any right to throw him across the room like that.

Damn Jamaicans! Always throwing people's shit around!

For the first in a long time I wished Sammy was alive so he could bite him in the nuts. As for me, I was helpless since the G-forces had pinned me to the wall and was making me shit my pants uncontrollably.

Meanwhile, Mr. 'Bully' Stewart had seized control of the plane and was barking orders and pushing buttons frantically.

Suddenly, I felt a violent jolt beneath my feet and was thrown to the floor as the plane rose sharply and then dove again.

"Sweet Mother of Christ!" ,

screamed Butch as he pulled on a lever and dumped all the fuel from the faulty engine into the sea where it was instantly swallowed up by a massive surface slick of Cocoa butter with SF30 sunscreen protection.

Unfortunately, some of the fuel landed on top of Margueritaville and ignited on the cigarette of a white girl who was smoking in the sea.

"...Aaaaaa....Aaaaa...Plane fuel! Plane fuel!"

It was horrible. Everywhere you looked there was nothing but American and Canadian teenagers running around on fire. There was no escape. Not even for those who tried to drive away in the Margueritaville shuttle bus.

"Omigod... I am like... so not having fun anymore!"

But then...just like that. The plane evened out in the air and and the horrible shaking stopped.

Everyone in the cabin breathed a sigh of relief as Butch Stewart handed the controls back over to the pilots once they stopped vommiting on each other.

I ran over to Sammy and picked him up from the floor. Thankfully, he was no worse than he had been before, except for his left front paw which had been broken off (partly due to some rotting before).

I turned to walk out of the cabin and go back to our seats, but much to my surprise, my exit was blocked by Mister Hero.

  "Hey there!",

 

he said as he spat out some loose teeth , "I'm sorry I had to throw your dog like that, but its against regulations and we have a tourist product to maintain here."

Although I felt like punching him in his big fat face, I had to admit that he seemed sincere. He continued:

"Listen, why don't you allow me to make it up to you and your dog. How about a complimentary bottle of our finest Champange and a week at Sandals Negril, inclusive of meals, drinks and water-sports?"

"Fair enough", I replied after looking at the floor for about a minute and shuffling my feet, "but only if you make an announcement that clapping when the plane lands is a butu thing to do."

He agreed.

I buckled Sammy into his chair and after brushing a few maggots from the bloodstained fur on his neck, we were soon sipping champange and popping valiums.

Ahhh dear Sammy, don't you see? Wherever there is life, there is always hope.

 

THE END