Rico.
That was his government name.
But within three weeks my son Scott had upgraded him to Rico Suave—which, loosely translated from Spanish, means “Rich and Smooth.”
Now let’s clear something up right out of the gate.
He was neither.
He wasn’t rich.
He wasn’t smooth.
And subtle?
Rico was about as subtle as a cymbal crash during a wedding vow.
But smart?
Oh sweet mercy.
This five-pound Jack Russell Terrier was the canine equivalent of a criminal mastermind trapped in a stuffed animal’s body. Dennis the Menace with better cardio.
The Gate Incident
Rico was visiting. We decided to put up a gate to keep him contained. Contained. I laugh now at my own optimism.
There I am, installing this gate like a proud homeowner securing the perimeter. Rico is sitting there watching me.
Not casually.
Not curiously.
No.
He was studying me. Like I was the subject of a dissertation titled:
“Human Overconfidence: A Case Study.”
I slide the gate flush against the wall. Tight. Clean. Professional.
I step back.
Admire my craftsmanship.
And then—
Rico walks over. Slowly. Thoughtfully.
Raises one tiny paw.
Slides the gate away from the wall like he’s opening a secret passage in a medieval castle.
And walks through.
No rush. No celebration.
Just… execution.
Easy cheesy.
Round Two: The Chair
Now listen.
I am not one to be intellectually dominated by something that weighs less than a Thanksgiving turkey breast.
So I escalate.
I grab a heavy wooden chair and wedge it firmly against the gate. This wasn’t a suggestion anymore. This was infrastructure.
I lean back. Arms crossed.
Checkmate.
Rico approaches.
He pauses.
And I swear to you—it looked like he was calculating wind speed, angle of trajectory, and gravitational pull.
He stands there. Still.
I’m thinking, Ah. Victory is mine.
Then—
He jumps onto the chair.
Balances.
Launches himself clean over the gate like an Olympic gymnast qualifying for the finals.
Lands.
Turns.
And looks at me.
The expression?
Half: “This is fun.”
Half: “You wanna go best two out of three?”
I told Scott, “If this dog had thumbs, you’d be getting collect calls from the police station.”
Rico Logic
Here’s the thing about Jack Russells.
They’re bred to hunt foxes underground. That means:
• Fearless
• Compact
• Highly intelligent
• Powered by nuclear fusion
They don’t just move.
They strategize.
Rico didn’t react.
He plotted.
And he did it with the enthusiasm of a caffeinated squirrel.
This dog had enough energy to power Narragansett for a long weekend. If we could’ve harnessed it, National Grid would’ve sent us a thank-you basket.
The Look
But the look.
That’s what stays with me.
After every stunt.
After every escape.
After every “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
He’d turn.
Tilt his head slightly.
Ears that could detect satellite transmissions.
Eyes bright.
Like he’d just solved a riddle no one else could see.
There was no malice in it.
No arrogance.
Just pure joy in the game.
And that’s what got you.
Because you couldn’t be mad.
You were impressed.
Exhausted.
But impressed.
Rico the Legend
We haven’t seen Rico in a while.
But every now and then, when something outsmarts me—
A cabinet door swings open.
A lock sticks.
A plan goes sideways.
I think of him.
Of that tiny paw sliding the gate.
Of the launch sequence over the chair.
Of the eyes that said, “C’mon, old man. Keep up.”
Dogs absolutely have personalities.
Some are gentle.
Some are dignified.
Some are aloof.
Rico?
Rico was a character.
A five-pound insurgent with a tail.
So if you ever see a Jack Russell over his head in mischief… calculating angles… testing barriers… looking suspiciously pleased with himself—
I’ll bet you dollars to donuts…
That’s Mr. Suave.
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