What are the odds of getting lucky twice?
Lucky was my soul dog, as the saying goes. He was my BFF. We were partners in crime (and laziness). He showed up when I needed him most.
Finding him was lucky indeed. I’m not sure what finally pushed us to get a dog back in October 2010. Looking back, it seemed crazy. Our kids were 5 and 7, and I had my hands gloriously full with them. Adopt a dog? Adding that new layer of responsibility risked being overwhelming.
Still, we browsed the animal shelter website religiously.
Until we found “the one.”
She reminded me of my childhood dog (a sweet-to-the-family-but-a-nightmare-to-everyone-else kind of dog that I’m not sure how my parents kept). A black lab mix (allegedly) named MaryAnn. She seemed perfect.
My husband disagreed. He wanted her brother, a tan pup named Skipper.
(Side note: I love the themed names shelters give their pups.)
We compromised: We’d visit and see who we liked best.
We drove to the shelter in what felt like rural Virginia. The two puppies, about 5 months old, had to stay out in the barn with the horses. They were recovering from parvo, the little fighters, and still needed to be quarantined away from the other dogs.
They’d been rescued once already — from a high-kill shelter in southern Virgina, where a farmer had turned them in.
MaryAnn was all puppy, jumping and nipping and doing her adrenaline-filled puppy thing. Skipper was far more chill, an old soul who was weary of MaryAnn’s shenanigans and just wanted some peace.
Decision time. Who was coming home with us?
(Don’t let my husband hear, because it will go to his head, but he was right.) It had to be Skipper.
But coming-home day would have to be a few weeks away. There was still a bit more parvo recovery he needed to do, and then a neuter was on the schedule.
Perfect. Plenty of time to plan.
I remember calling my dad to tell him all about the puppy. I knew he’d love him. He took the conservative route. “Are you sure you want to adopt a dog that’s been so sick?” Too late. We were all in.
It’s the last conversation I remember having with my dad.
I spent the morning of Oct. 10 in full puppy-nesting mode. I bought a crate from a neighbor and made a run to the pet store for supplies. Later that day, while I was at a baby shower for a friend’s daughter, I got the call that my dad had suffered a heart attack. By the time I’d packed and rushed to the airport, I got another call. He didn’t make it.
All our plans — all my everything — changed in an instant.
We had already put the deposit down on Skipper, so I called the shelter and asked if they could keep him a little bit longer. After I explained the circumstances, they willingly agreed.
The next week or so was a blur. All the puppy excitedness was replaced with a numb grief and the realization that nothing would ever be the same again. And even though our sense of “normal” was going to have changed once we brought a puppy home, this new, unplanned version of normal felt almost unbearable.
Still, the world keeps turning and people go on with their lives, and eventually, we did, too.
We made arrangements to pick up Skipper on the way home from the airport. I felt guilty for looking forward to leaving my hometown and resuming our lives, but I secretly hoped our new furry friend would help us keep our minds off the sadness a little bit and give us something to look forward to. To smile about.
I remember he sat in my lap the whole way home.
When it came time to name him, there were a lot of options on the table. But what we settled on was Lucky.
Cliche? Maybe. Appropriate? Absolutely.
Not only was he lucky to have been rescued (third time’s a charm!), but we were lucky to have him as a distraction during such a sad time of our lives.
With the exception of a few minor mishaps, he became the perfect dog. Sure, he ate the straps off of one of my bras, and the brim of a baseball hat, and the legs of our dining room chairs, and one leg of my daughter’s pajama pants. He was crazy on a leash and once showed up at the back door with a deer leg in his mouth.
But he was always happy to see us. Always wanting to be around us. And always being a darn good boy.
His last few years of life were a little rough and a lot less lucky than I would’ve liked. Two failed surgeries for a torn ACL. Then the other ACL tore. Then he developed Cushing’s that we just couldn’t control. When we finally had to say goodbye, after he suddenly started having seizures, we were all devastated.
The grief returned. He could never be replaced. He would never be replaced.
For well over a year, that was true. We fostered several puppies, and even though I cried when they left, I didn’t miss them being gone.
On a visit to my mom’s house, my mom asked me if we were ever going to get another dog. (My parents were never without a dog when I was growing up — even after my sister and I had flown the nest.) I emphatically said no. “Why?” she asked.
“Because they’re just going to die,” I sobbed. I just couldn’t do that again.
Little did I know that not long after that conversation, I’d lose my mom, too.
Everything was leaving.
As the weeks and months went by after my mom’s death, my daughter and I often communicated by sending each other dozens of shelter dog pictures a day. I still didn’t think I was ready for a dog, though. It’s like sending your spouse pictures of your dream home in Bali or of a high-end sports car — fun to talk and think about, but when push comes to shove, you’re probably all talk and no action.
But one December day, we went to the shelter to foster a particular dog I’d seen while volunteering. Fostering, I could handle.
As we pulled into the parking lot, the shelter texted me to let me know the dog had been adopted. We decided to go in anyway. We spent a good 2 hours taking dogs out of their kennels and letting them run outside in the enclosed areas. We felt good giving them a break, but none of them were right. None of them were Lucky.
As we were leaving, my daughter saw a dog cowering in the back of a kennel, trying to get away from the raucous barking of hundreds of dogs. It looked a little bit like Lucky. But it had no name. No kennel card.
We stopped at the front and asked if we could get some information on the dog. Her name was Josie, and she’d been there just three weeks.
When we bought her out to the play area, she was the only dog we’d seen who wanted to just be with us.
Josie came home with us that day.
She’s now Lucy. You know, Lucky, without the k. They’re similar in some ways, and so opposite in others.
There are some days where I still think I’m not ready for another dog. And there are others where I’m so glad she found a crack in my armor and snuggled right on in.
I guess that’s the nature of grief and of growth and of giving (and getting) new chances. We should all be so lucky.
Four Birds 