I just didn't know....

I'm a cat person. I've always been a cat person. I will probably always be a cat person. But back in 1998, we adopted a border collie/Lab mix puppy to protect our chickens. The Dr. Doolittle movie with Eddie Murphy had just come out, and we named him Lucky, after the dog in the movie.

I was an at-home mom all those years. Lucky was my constant companion. He was always with me. Sometimes I would walk around the yard with a line of critters behind me: Lucky, a cat, a chicken, and a bunny. Lucky was always the leader.

We built fences at two houses for Lucky, because we wanted him to be able to run freely. But sometimes, he still found a way to get out. When he did, we'd walk on the outside and call him to figure out how he got out. When we moved to town, our neighbor told us he was getting out. It's a much bigger deal, a roaming dog in town, because the pound will pick them up. While Hubby went outside the fence to find the hole, I stood in the kitchen to see where Lucky went. Hubby called Lucky, Lucky ran for the hole, then looked back at the house where I was watching from the kitchen window. I could almost hear him thinking, “Oh crap, I'm busted!” He reluctantly walked to the hole in the fence, knowing full well his escape route would be eliminated. He was a smart dog and so sad.

When threatened by a roaming Dalmatian, Lucky guarded me.

When our chickens were threatened by a gopher, Lucky took it out, and laid it at the back door for me to find.

Once, when we lived in Hudson, I watched a skunk walk across our yard, as Lucky stayed quietly back by the house. He was a smart dog.

Lucky loved ice and wintergreen mints. If you had a drink with fresh ice, he would look at you longingly until you gave him a cube. He loved mint so much, he would come and smell your breath after brushing your teeth.

Lucky had heartworm treatment in 2006, which was the primary reason we adopted Libby. Because of what I saw him go through, and the fear that brought me, I will never do that again. Never.

Lucky could clean off a whole coffee table with his killer tail.

The daughter and I used to pretend to girl fight, slapping at each other and squealing, and Lucky would come get between us, barking and wagging his tail, and enjoying the game.

Lucky loved catching any bug that flew. Once he caught a cicada; when it buzzed he'd drop it, then pick it back up when it got quiet. He got several baby birds that fell out of their nests. If I could find them soon enough, all I had to say was “Drop it” and he would. He didn't want to hurt the birds, he just wanted to be with them.

Lucky had several nicknames: Moosey Mutt when he wanted in a lap, the Woofer because he'd woof 30 seconds after you let him out, and he spoke whale quite fluently.

When I threw my back out the first time, Lucky let me use him as a cane.

You could not kick a soccer ball past Lucky; he always blocked them.

Lucky loved the beach. The first time he went, he drank salt water, puked everywhere, and looked at me like it was my fault. He didn't drink it again, but he sure did love chasing seagulls.

Lucky could catch anything and ate everything we tossed to him. He won a blue ribbon at a dog fair for the “Dog that will eat anything.” He was the only dog that ate the baby carrot. His daughter is the same way.

Lucky caught the squirrels hubby shot out of our pecan tree in mid-air. Not a one ever hit the ground.

He never moved when I told him to stay, and got along with everybody and every animal he ever met.

If Lucky was barking, and I said, “Knock it off,” he would lay down and be as quiet as he could be.

I didn't know.

I didn't know it could be like this with a dog, that they really were man (and woman's) best friend. He was always there, always comforting, he was truly the best friend I ever had. I loved that dog like none I had ever loved before. I didn't know it could be like that with a dog.

Honestly, I didn't know.

I just didn't know.

I didn't know you could have that kind of relationship with a dog. It's completely different from cats. I can't even begin to explain it, and I am a person who lives with words and writes every single day. Lucky was everything you could imagine you'd want in a dog; smart, funny, and accommodating. He got along with chickens, ducks, cats, and even had a bunny living in his yard at one time. He was far more than just a pet.

He was great. I loved that dog more than I thought was humanly possible to love a pet.

Lucky was a part of my life for almost 14.5 years. He went to Rainbow Bridge on August 6, 2012. I am always going to miss him. There will never be another Lucky Dawg in my life; and that breaks my heart.

We still have two dogs, but they're not Lucky.

No dog will ever be Lucky.

So, time goes by.

Grief and I have been companions for many years, so I'm familiar with its behavior. Time doesn't heal a damn thing. Don't let anybody ever tell you time makes grief easier. You just get more used to having it in your life; the feelings of grief never go away. Obviously at 52 years of age, I'd been through the loss of a pet before. Compared to some of the deaths I've dealt with in life, like my son's, the death of a pet doesn't even register.

But it still hurt, and that surprised me. I'd see dogs with similar markings, or similar personalities, and it would hurt that it wasn't Lucky. I missed him SO bad.

I'm just not one of those people who get a new pet after one dies; it takes me awhile to assimilate loss. So after about a year, getting a new puppy began to creep into my awareness. Yes, we had two dogs already, but they weren't MY dog. You know what I mean? I'd rather adopt an older dog, but our Libby is boss dog, 8 years old, and has seizures. I knew from fostering other dogs, a puppy would be easier on her.

Ya'll know how Facebook is; any time someone has puppies or kittens, they post it trying to find them new homes. My particular set of friends are so incredibly animal-conscious. In a way, it's the magnet that drew us all together on Facebook. I keep stumbling over new friends that knew old friends, and it turned out we ALL knew each other, and every one of us loves animals.

So, I began to pay attention to other dogs again. There are almost always new pics of puppies on Facebook. Saw a little border collie mix that looked just like Lucky, but by the time I inquired, that puppy had been adopted. Lucky had only been 55-65 pounds; bigger than our surviving dogs, but not super huge. Hubby and I joke about the current fad of little dogs you can carry everywhere, and call them pretend dogs, so I even looked at Yorkies and Maltese and dachsunds. But in my heart, I really do love big dogs and missed my big dog hugs. I visited a lady with nine great danes, and gosh I loved those dogs, but I'd never pay for a pedigreed dog. I visited Pyrenees, and Danes, and collies and shepherds and Labs and golden retrievers. I visited the kill shelter here in Lufkin, as well as the dogs at the no-kill shelter.

I wasn't even actually intentionally looking for a dog; I was just seeing what went by, you know? The thought of a new dog just kind of floated through my mind, whenever I'd meet a new dog. I was thinking all along that when God wanted me to adopt another dog, the dog would present itself. It was kind of like looking for a husband; I'd see some that appealed to me, enjoy playing with them and loving on them, but they weren't MY dog. I guess it's a really good thing my husband found me—lol!

So, there's this lady (Pat) on Facebook. She and I share a mutual friend, but I didn't actually know Pat. She posted a pic of her “Baptist puppies” and our mutual friend shared it. Pat lives in Wells, and I thought, it's no big deal to just have a look. Pat is a rescuer and had rescued a full blooded female pit bull from a neighbor who kept it chained. Her son owned a full-blooded Lab. While Mama was being boarded at a vet, Mama was to be spayed. When Pat saw Mama and Daddy doing the hokey pokey, she called the vet, and turns out: they didn't realize they were supposed to spay Mama and so, there ya go.

Mama subsequently gave birth to the eleven Baptist puppies. Yes, ELEVEN. Pat had found homes for all but two of the puppies, both girls, which didn't matter to use because we spay/neuter all of our critters as soon as they're old enough. Daughter and I had made a road trip to deliver some goldfish (long story), and decided to meet Pat in Wells on the way home. Honestly, I was a little nervous about adopting a dog that was part pit, after all those terrible stories we hear about them. But in my personal opinion, it is the owner that makes a dog mean; dogs aren't born that way. For some odd reason, I felt compelled to visit these puppies. (And if you'll be patient, after my signature, I'll PS the explanation of the “Baptist” puppies.)

So, my daughter and I went out to visit the puppies on a Wednesday, when my hubby is home sleeping off his night shift. Pat and I met at the school in Wells, and she let this little black thing with practically no hair (a serious plus) out on the grass. The puppy paid little attention to us. She was more interested in exploring the grass and shrubs than us, but she wasn't resistant to being picked up and cuddled. Daughter and I liked it, just because it was a puppy, but I didn't get that---MAGNET---feeling. I didn't feel she was MY dog.

Daughter and I weren't going to adopt any puppy without Hubby meeting it as well, so the next day, we ran back out to Wells and met Pat at her house to visit the puppy again. Pat brought Mama in and she was so sweet, she was immediately submissive and you could tell she was a rescued dog. She would do anything to please the humans who helped her.

If you know me, you know I sit on the floor a lot, particularly with my critters or my grandies. Since I lost all the weight, it's just easier to sit on the floor than squat; 328 pounds destroyed my knees and I can't do that anymore. Gotta say though, it's a lot easier getting back up now. :-)

So, I sit down on Pat's floor, and that little dang puppy runs to me, climbs in my lap, and starts licking my face. Like her mom, her big old tail that is longer than she is just a-wagging, along with most of her back half.

Yeah, ya'll know where this goes from there, right? We took the dang puppy home and named her Lucy, a name I'd had in my mind for a long time as sort of a tribute to Lucky Dawg.

Just like us when Libby and Lucky had their puppies, Pat made it clear: If it doesn't work out with the puppy, bring it back. With our puppies, I even wrote up tips for dealing with puppies—lol. But, there was no way Pat's Baptist puppies were going to end up in a kill shelter. (Which, sadly, was proven by one inhumane adopter later.)

If you've ever had a puppy, you know, it is NOT easy, this growing a dog.

Lucy puddled everywhere, despite our efforts to take her out all the time. After slipping in a puppy puddle and popping something in my back, I was thinking, this is just NOT a good idea, I'm just too old to deal with this anymore. But we had this silly DUH moment, and realized if we left the back door open a bit, she'd go out to puddle! We were all like—-well, damn we're just stupid. She's already trained, she just couldn't get out! So, now, we leave the back door cracked (even in 20 degree weather), and we find very few puddles.

Lucy got her nickname early; she is the PITA Psycho Puppy (and if you're older like me and don't know what PITA stands for, it's “pain in the ass”). The reason we call her that is that she just does the funniest things. She loves wood, and picks up branches and brings them into the house to chew on. One night, she was crying because I had the door cracked, but it wasn't wide enough for her limb, and she wasn't big enough to push the door open—lol!!

She loves squeaky toys and as soon as she gets the squeaker out, she's done. Like our Libby did, she dissects stuffies, so we find little piles of stuffing all over the house. Between our backdoor and my room, which is where Lucy lives, there is now a trail of stuffies, limbs, crunched wood, chewed up pine cones, stuffie stuffing, and occasionally something odd she found in the back yard. At the moment, our house looks like a stuffy cemetery when you walk in.

Lucy is a complete and total wuss. If the other dogs start barking at something, Lucy runs and hides under my bed or in my lap. It's hilarious! When she's outside, she runs under one of our sheds; there's a video of it on Facebook if you really care enough to watch. She is rapidly approaching a time when she's not gonna fit under my bed. Last night, she was actually whimpering because she couldn't get under there; she's so funny, she put her legs under the bed and hid the rest of her under the covers. What a goober.....

She loves teasing the older dogs into play and has rejuvenated both of our older dogs; they can be dead asleep and she will coerce them into playing. The other day, I found Libby and Lucy on the back porch just rolling while they were embracing each other. Libby has NEVER allowed ANY dog to tower over her, it is a pet peeve with her, but she's letting Lucy roll over her, stand over her, tower over her. This is such an incredible thing, because I found out a couple of weeks ago, Lucy's dad weighs 100 lbs. Lucy has huge paws, appears to be on the path to be a REALLY big dog, and that big, she absolutely has to be able to get along with Libby. If she's going to be that big, I have to ensure that she won't hurt Libby, Girl, or any of our five cats, two of which are over 10 years old. Currently, Lucy has come to terms with each cat according to their personality; she just needs to remember that Squeaky's gonna claw the shit out of her at some point. The rest of the cats either ignore her or just give her kitty head butts.

Today, 1/28/14, Lucy is exactly three months old. So far, she has learned how to sit, is mostly potty trained, learning to wait until a human says it's OK to eat a treat, and not to walk on our plates when we are eating. (She still sneaks in under the big dogs to eat out of their bowls---it's hilarious!) She's learning from our other dogs that she is supposed to stay at the gate (so we can leave it open when we're bring groceries and stuff in), and she's not supposed to go past that invisible line and leave the yard.

After getting caught redhanded by Hubby sneaking under the fence, she's committed herself to protection of the house and yard, doing regular patrols with Libby, and not escaped again, but for the moment, we still keep the gap under the gate blocked, just in case she decides to have a romp.

When she picks up something she's not supposed to have, she hauls ass. I mean, there is no way I'm catching that dog when she takes off. And the funny part is, she is fully aware of what she's doing! She KNOWS she's picked up something that is taboo; it is very much a game with her.

She's a puppy, and sometimes, a TOTAL pain in the ass....

Then....

When she is tired she comes up behind me, and rests her head on my shoulder for comfort.

When I discipline her and say “bad dog”, she licks my nose.

When I fill up the dogs' bowls in the morning, she eats out of each bowl progressively as I fill them; such a goober.

I bought a crate for her to sleep in at night, but when I am tired and cold, she curls her body against mine, and I just can't bring myself put her in the crate. She conforms herself to the shape of my body, and lets me use her as a pillow to fall asleep. Unless you're an insomniac like me, you have no idea what a gift this is.

After a night when she sleeps with me, she hugs my head with her paws, and licks my face to wake me up when she needs out.

Although she has a submissive nature and doesn't like jumping on humans; she is reluctantly learning how to give Big Dog hugs.

She loves our cat, Bones, and lets Bones head butt her just like she does to the other dogs. Bonesy just never met a stranger, feline or canine.

While I am in the midst of my winter blues, wanting to barricade myself in the house, and not wanting to come out till spring, she jumps up on the bed, bringing me a mutilated stuffie, drops it in my lap, and waits expectantly for me to throw it: over and over and over. “Bring it” is something she's learning really well.

Lucky Dawg's collar still hangs on my bed. Lucy licks it every day; it is SO weird.

When my heart is sad over some awful news I've seen on TV or online, Lucy plops in my lap. It's gonna be a real issue if she reaches 100 lbs. but it is the sweetest and most comforting action anyone could offer.

Lucy does not judge me, find me wanting, or love me any less because of any of my human foibles.

So yeah, I'm a cat person. But Lucky Dawg and his gifts continue to pour into my life. Because before him, I just didn't know.

I just didn't know....

Love to all those who love me,

allison

P.S. The explanation for "Baptist puppies." Theres a old story about a little boy pulling a wagon of puppies saying free Baptist puppies ,the third day he started saying free pentcostal puppies a man said I thought they were Baptist puppies the little boy said they opened there eyes and saw the light. Pat's son used to tell that story little all the time so they became Baptist puppies,