Sunday, December 9, 2012


This was going to be about history. The month that reaches from November 11 to December 7 has more than those two dates to consider, and that’s what I planned to write about. Here’s the way I began:
How’s this for a month of black days: memorials for veterans, memorial for a slain president, memorial for ". . . a day that will live in infamy," and in between, a day memorializing the first settlers and a tradition of giving thanks for what the other memorials mean to us all.

Does it seem that the time period is consistent with the time of year? Things dying, things pulling in to protect against the coming winter of life, things simply hiding from the difficult days of winter that lie ahead?
But I didn’t end up where I had intended to go. Or did I? This is, after all, about Remembrance.
And now a memorial for Lucky. "Lucky dog" is the expression, isn’t it? But Lucky wasn't very lucky at all. He died in his sleep yesterday about noon, the result of an undiagnosable infection that finally attacked his kidneys and his life. We did everything we could, but in less than two weeks he went from being a most joyous and joyful companion to a lethargic and tragic little guy; one who loved to ride in his mistress’s car, share her chair during our reading time before bed, go with her every step of the way, to being unable to even rise enough to walk out the door. It was another sad day for us. I’d like to tell you about him, while he is still fresh in my mind.

Lucky was a 25 pound ball of joy and love. I almost think he produced so much pleasure in all who knew him because he knew he would not be around forever, and wanted to be sure that we derived as much good feeling as we normally would in a long lifetime association with him. No dog that has graced our lives has been so full of the pleasure he could bring to others, so vast was his capacity to express what he felt. He wasn’t "my" dog, he was hers, but still he shared his joy of living with me, too, as if I were more than the second most important person in his life.

Is he missed? Would you ask that about the sun on a cloudy day? Life here will never be the same, though we will find joy in it as long as we live. We have wonderful memories, there are even pictures to remind us, and stories of his quick intelligence and desire to be what he was: an object of love which he so easily returned. Even strangers could feel his sweetness, but knew immediately that he was loyal only to one, who returned that loyalty and love a thousand-fold. It will be hard, he will be missed, there will never be another like him. We will go on, of course, as we always do, but carrying a small package of great love in our hearts.

Thank our Lucky star.

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