Getting lucky

Out behind my house, in a fenced-in area with a terrain resembling that of the moon, resides a fat, filthy, ill-mannered beast named Lucky.

Lucky is some sort of mongrel dog. I suspect she is mostly Labrador retriever, and part Tasmanian devil. If you’ve ever seen the old Bugs Bunny cartoons, you know what I mean.

I must say that all of Lucky’s havoc-wreaking is good-natured, unless you are a small animal like a squirrel, chipmunk, rat, frog or bird, all of which have died by her hand – er, paws. She patrols the back yard like a hairy sentry, defending her home and her family against all intruders. Except people. She loves people.

In other words, she’s not a watchdog. If Charles Manson came over the fence carrying a machete, she’d run up and lick that swastika on his forehead. When Lucky sees somebody new, she does not consider them a danger. I believe she asks herself two questions: Does this person have food? Will this person pet me?

If the answer to both is no, then she shamelessly begs for attention, reaching out her paw, or flopping down on the ground in anticipation.

I brought her home from a pet store about four years ago. We went to adopt a puppy, and they had all sorts of fancy breeds, but the people from our local humane society had a number of rules and regulations you had to meet before they’d let you adopt. There was a waiting period, they had to come check out your home, make sure you weren’t in the Communist party, didn’t hang out with Michael Vick, etc. I’m not one for such scrutiny. I won’t even give my phone number out to the hapless cashiers at Best Buy.

After bristling at the adoption Gestapo, my attention was drawn to a little pen in the middle of the store, where several mangy looking dogs were hanging out, courtesy of the Jasper County Humane Society. I went to take a look and this happy-looking white dog, about 6 months old, came immediately up and began to lick me. This began a pattern that has not abated.

Her name was Cissy. We brought her home, and changed her name to Lucky, because Cissy reminded me of Family Affair, and as I recall that girl came to a bad end. Or maybe it was Buffy. Anyway, we bought her a dog house, which she refused to go in for three years. We got her a water dish, and she splashed all the water out every time we filled it. Nobody warned me the dog had mental problems.

The first thing she did was destroy the nice flower bed we had around a crepe myrtle bush. She decided that was a better place to sleep than the dog house. Then she ate an azalea bush, part of a plum tree, and a good three inches of siding from the back of the house. And then came the digging. Indiana Jones never dug holes like this dog did. I don’t stop her because I’m hoping one day she’ll strike oil.

Every now and then, she bolts out of the gate and tears around the neighborhood like a demon spirit, and I have to chase her down and guide her back home, even as she digs in and bows up and refuses to move. I’m sure the neighbors who have seen these encounters have called the Humane Society and reported me for inflicting emotional distress on the dog, but they never tried to drag an 80-pound hairball down the sidewalk, either.

And besides, all is forgiven when we get in the back yard, and I slip her some cheese, and she licks me until every inch of my exposed skin is covered with slobber. Ain’t love grand?