When my brother was in high school, he brought home our first dog in years—a sweet Deer Head Chihuahua. She was the runt of the litter, tiny enough to fit in the palm of your hand. My mom and dad weren’t thrilled at first because she was an indoor dog. They had both grown up on farms where dogs were workers and lived outside. Our dogs had always stayed outdoors in a dog house or, on really cold nights, in the basement.
My own first impression of Lucky was a little rocky too. I had a pair of woven leather flats that I wore almost every day in the summertime. Before Lucky was housebroken, she defecated right in my shoe. Mom tried to make it better by saying, “I think she was trying not to go on the floor.” I just stared at her and said, “Really?”
But despite our early misgivings, all of us—my parents and me—warmed up to Lucky. Before long she became one of the most beloved members of our family. My older sister, who had her own apartment at the time, adored her. She would ask if Lucky could come spend the night so she could have her all to herself. She even took Lucky through the McDonald’s drive-thru to buy her a hamburger. She’d take off the bun and hand Lucky the patty. It’s no wonder Lucky adored her too.
Lucky’s Appetite for Trouble
Lucky, though small, had a very big personality. Once she had a taste of human food, she was hooked. Mom did feed her dog food, but if Lucky ever spotted a chance to snag something off our plates, she went for it.
I remember once coming home from a long stretch of studying in college. I brought Chinese food for supper—Kung Pao Chicken with peanuts and crab rangoon—and carefully set my plate on the lamp table, pushing it as far from the couch as I could. My brother asked me to move my car (we had a tandem driveway), so I ran outside, moved it, and came back in.
There was Lucky, stretched across the arm of the couch like a tiny acrobat, wolfing down my dinner.
“Lucky, stop that!” I yelled.
She jumped down, turned her back to me, and calmly licked her chops.
Car Rices and Church Sausage
Lucky loved riding in the car on my mother’s lap. On Sunday mornings, Dad often cooked sausage patties and biscuits before church. One Sunday, as I sat on the couch reading the paper, I watched Lucky beg to go with them. She wasn’t allowed at church, so they had to tell her no.
The moment they drove out of sight, she hopped down from the chair and quietly sauntered into the kitchen. A few seconds later I heard rustling. I rounded the corner to find Lucky on a chair, on the table, unwrapping the cellophane from the plate of sausages and gobbling them down.
When I shouted “Lucky!” she jumped like she’d forgotten I existed and scrambled off the table. Back in the living room, she just looked at me like, What?
The Apron Incident
Mom usually bathed Lucky, and because she had a small beauty shop in our basement, she wore a plastic apron when working with hair color. She used that same apron when she bathed the dog.
One afternoon, Lucky was barking at the front door to be let in. I was on the landline and couldn’t reach it. Mom, hearing Lucky from downstairs, stepped out of the basement door—still wearing her plastic apron—and called for Lucky.
I watched out the window as Lucky started toward her… until she recognized the apron. She froze, then slowly and quietly began walking backward. Mom kept calling, but Lucky kept retreating, step by careful step. When Mom finally stepped around the corner and saw her, Lucky hunkered down like she was hiding. I finally put my friend on hold and opened the front door to let Lucky in myself.
Storm Season
Lucky hated storms. Thunder terrified her, and she’d run through the house trying to climb onto the highest spot she could find.
One day, after an especially stormy afternoon, Mom and I came home from running errands. Lucky didn’t meet us at the door, so we called for her. Nothing. We checked under beds, under the couch—no Lucky. Then I heard a faint whimper.
We followed the sound to the spare bedroom, where Mom kept a sewing desk, a crib, and a box spring and mattress stacked upright against the wall. The whimpering got louder as I approached. We looked under the crib, under the desk—still no Lucky.Finally, I realized the sound was coming from between the mattresses. Lucky had apparently jumped onto the chair, then the desk, then onto the mattress—only to fall between them and get wedged in like a tiny furry sandwich. When I peeked between the mattresses, there she was: trapped, guilty, and pitiful. Mom and I slowly separated the mattresses until Lucky could slide down and shuffle out. She looked so relieved.
The Goodbye That Broke Us
Lucky died at the age of 13, and we were all devastated. She was truly a member of our family—it felt like losing one. She had been my nighttime snuggle partner and a patient confidant who listened to all my troubles.
Since Lucky, I’ve been fortunate to have several good, smart, loving dogs. But Lucky set the bar so high. She was as much a blessing to us as we were to her.
When I think back on her and the impact she had on our lives, I realize something:
We were the lucky ones.