Selected Writings |
| Another Dog Named Lucky There was a trash dumpster at the top of the hill, next to the cemetery, behind the church. A thicket of tangled pine saplings, honeysuckle vines, and saw briars separated the dumpster from the main highway and the beaten path. Dumpsters are havens for scavengers of all sorts, from tomcats to the even more desperate, who come to sort through that which others have discarded. Rural people tend to see a dumpster as a solution to problems that won't go away by themselves. Dozens of kittens were left to sort through the trash in the hopes that some would be "trash- emptier" would find a soft place in his heart and provide a good home. Leaving them to fend for themselves somehow seems more humane, more palatable than euthanasia. Several mangy mutts were left. Even two long-eared coon dog puppies made the dumpster their home for a few days before someone took them home. Saturday seems to have been the favorite day to leave unwanted pets. Perhaps people knew that the Church in the hollow below would be filled with carloads of tender-hearted tots the next day. I guess that Lucky came to us by necessity, not by choice. One Saturday afternoon I spotted her from our yard, across the street from the little stone church. I was preparing to cook fish for my wife's family. For a long time I couldn't tell through the bushes if she was a lost fawn, a large yellow cat, or an overgrown puppy. For several minutes we studied each other warily. I made the first move, offering some old bologna from the meat tray of our refrigerator. Lucky dared not approach. Only after I returned to the house did she steal across the lawn, snatch her treasure, and scurry to the safety of the woods to consume it. As I watched from the window, I seemed to notice an appreciative glance my way. She was young, but somehow wise beyond her days. She was mostly Golden Retriever, with a little Beagle, and a world of personality. Soon we would come to call her our "Heinz 57." At first my wife scolded me, "I don't want you feeding that dog. If you do, it will never leave. You don't know what kind of diseases that nasty thing might have. It could even have rabies!" But it was February. And all God's creatures need a little help in the coldest, wettest month of the miserable Louisiana winter. That night I snuck to the carport and made a small meal for her from some leftover French Fries and fried filets of the fish we had for supper. The next morning my friendship offering had been consumed, and within a week she had made her way into our hearts and our family. We named her Lucky. It seemed appropriate, since then President Reagan had a dog with the same name. Our Lucky was fortunate to have found a home. And she seemed to know it. Lucky scorned collars, disliked cars, and hated pickup trucks. Maybe she remembered a fateful ride early one Saturday morning when someone hauled her by the collar into a pickup truck and abandoned her at a dumpster on top of the hill at the foot of the cemetery above the little country church. It took me three weeks to get a flea collar on her. Ordinarily she would jump in my arms and roll over and over with me in the grass, but not if she sensed I had a collar in my pocket. The only time she ever snapped at me was during my unsuccessful effort to put her in my truck to take her to the veterinarian for shots and to "get her fixed." Maybe I should have been more persistent. Within a few months Lucky drew a crowd of male admirers. And a few weeks later we knew we would soon have a litter of puppies. We did, one cold morning in late October. Lucky was a good mother, seeing to it that each of the eight little fat puppies was clean and well fed. Perhaps it was her motherhood that led to the end. Perhaps she knew that she had found a good home for herself, and that we would be as good to her offspring as she was. When the puppies were four weeks old, one night the coyotes began to howl closer to our door than usual. When Lucky barked and growled back, somehow we sensed something was wrong. Several trips to the barn with the flashlight revealed little, but the growling and barking and sounds of fighting went on for hours. The next morning, the eight little fat puppies were on the carport, heretofore a zone forbidden by Lucky the good and faithful mother. The trail of blood told us Lucky had made her way to the barn, nursed her offspring one last time, and dragged herself to the bushes to die. Each puppy received a mixture of puppy chow and Pet milk combined in a blender for the next three weeks. By Christmas, good homes were found for every one. For months, every time the headlights of our truck shined across the yard as we made our way home, I searched momentarily for the glow of our Lucky Dog's eyes. And every time another dog or cat was left to fend for himself at the trash dump on top of the hill at the foot of the cemetery behind the little country church, I hoped that it would be another Lucky. And I thank God that for a few months, a little yellow dog made us feel lucky. You see, maybe it is the little things in life that really make it worth living. In Proverbs, the Bible says, "The Lord hath made all things for Himself. . . . Better is a little with righteousness than great revenues without right." |