He was a good dog

Truth be told, there are only good dogs. Those we might call bad dogs got that way through bad training or bad treatment. Dogs are inherently good, inherently loving, inherently devoted to making us feel better. They want nothing in return but a minimum of care and a bit of love, and even when we withhold it, they don't. The only bumper sticker I've seen recently that I was tempted to put on my car reads “The more people I meet, the more I like my dogs.”

Lucky was not overly affectionate. We got him when he was two and so we knew nothing about how he was treated for those first years. He was a bit shy at the beginning, but warmed up to us pretty quickly. He was gentle with people, and with other dogs, allowing Tasha to retain her role as Alpha dog, even though she was a female. He tolerated Cassie's non-stop energy and came to enjoy playing with her, but was fiercely protective if she tried to come between him and me, or him and Ransom. If I had to choose one word to describe him, I would say he was sweet. A very gentle and sweet dog.

Lucky was also “my dog.” He was devoted to both Ransom and me, as we were to him, but he bonded with me first and, with Ransom traveling as much as he did, Lucky shared my loneliness. We used to sit and listen to “Lover Come Back” and sigh long breaths of melancholy despair. OK, that's not true, but I always had the sense that Lucky knew the pack was not whole when Ransom was traveling and that he expressed that by cuddling with me and loving me extra hard to make up for Ransom's absence.

I'm sad that he's gone, and I'm angry. He was only seven years old. It's not fair!

Well, of course it's not, because life is not fair. I know that's a cliché, but I believe it. I am NOT an optimist. Some say I am a pessimist, but I think of myself as a realist. I've had six decades of seeing how the world works and I have yet to see a basis for optimism. There's good in the world, yes; and I know I have been blessed more than I deserve, but I still think that at its core humanity is a pretty dark and mean life form and that Thoreau was on to something when he said most of us “lead lives of quiet desperation.”

Lucky was diagnosed at the end of June with cancer in two organs. We were told that he could die within a day or two. My friend Joe, when he heard that Lucky was gone said “well, he sure lived up to his name, lasting three months longer than you expected.” I guess Joe's an optimist. Personally, I thought Lucky was ill-named. We were the lucky ones, getting to share our lives with him these last five years. His will be the fourth grave on our property. He was a good dog.