Lucky

It's been a week. I walked up from the beach and my book and this Memorial Day Monday thinking about the Monday past. We all sat in the front yard at 77th street waiting for the vet. Lucky was slow and steady, wondering perhaps about all the attention, what had brought this disconnected family back together, here in the grass of the only home she's known. Mom and Carla had made the trip to Pungo 14 years ago to pick out a puppy when Walker was six. We'd decided that somehow six was the age he would be mature enough to care for a dog. He took to her right away, and she to him. And she to all of us. She was gracious when we brought another puppy Henry home six years later. He lifted her spirits. Henry lifted everyone's spirits. But on this Monday Henry remained inside, while Lucky lay in the grass sandwiched between the awkwardness of waiting for the end game and the awkwardness that pulls us all back together. A sedative to relax her, Walker sat with her head in his lap. Tears flowed, memories poured out. Walker pushed my camera down.
Another needle and she was lifeless. The emptiness was so heavy, for me. She'd seen her boy grow up and off to college. She'd been so sweet and head strong. And just like that, she was gone. Walker picked her up and carried her to the street and the stretcher. We let Henry out to say goodbye. He jumped into the back of the SUV where Lucky lay, and smelled his best friend. The girl who grew him up. He stood in the back of the car and wouldn't jump down.