My Dog Lucky - What About Your Loved Pet?

While talking with Delores Hobson of Marion about how difficult it was for her to decide to have Scoobie, 17, put to sleep after he had served the family so well (see today's Ramblin' column in The Gazette), I couldn't help but think about the dog I had while growing up. (You'll see my family's current dog, Cocoa, only the second dog I've ever had, to the right of this post.)

We had Lucky, a border collie, for 14 years. He came into our lives one winter evening when my father pretended that this cute little puppy had followed him into the house. The dog slipped and slid on the hardwood floors. I was 8 years old. "Can we keep him?" my brother, sister and I shouted. Of course we could.

Fourteen  years later, as a 22-year-old senior in college, I came home one day to learn there was no more Lucky. My father, a tough World War II veteran whom I'd never seen cry, had a tear in his eye when he delivered the news. Lucky had struggled to get around for a couple of years with a bad hip, sore legs and poor vision. Taking him to the vet to have him put to sleep was one of my dad's toughest journeys.

Lucky hadn't been perfect. He cried all night for days when he was a puppy and grew up to bark at other dogs. As kids, we weren't the best at making sure he had water and food.  On occasion he'd run away and show up all wet and dirty from walking/swimming in a nearby creek. When he had free range on the acreage we lived on for awhile he caught ground squirrels and delivered the prizes on our front doorstep.

Once, after someone several blocks away claimed that Lucky bit a little girl (it was never substantiated), dad gave Lucky away to a farmer several miles away. In a couple of days Lucky showed up at the front door. Yes, we would still keep him.

I remember watching him chase bees around the marigolds and the occasional swollen nose, the slip-sliding on our icy driveway, the lolling tongue hanging out of his mouth after a long run. I remember removing cockle burs from his fur, feeding him meat scraps, talking to him when I was feeling down as if he was my best friend and as if he understood every word.

Growing up, Lucky was the only dog I ever had. Fourteen years. I was the lucky one.