Lucky

We named the dog Lucky because the wife wouldn’t put up with what I wanted to call him: Road Kill. He was really lucky because when we found him laying by the side of the road (the wife made me stop) and took him to the vet, he managed to live even though he still has a limp and some scars.
And brain damage. Maybe not. Maybe he was always that stupid. Probly why he got hit with a car in the first place. I’ve had a lot of pets in my life and they all die on you, so I don’t let myself get personally involved any more. But the kids love him even if he can’t do a trick or obey any command except the call to dinner. He’s about four years old, they tell us, a golden cocker who’s going to fat because almost all he does is limp from one comfortable spot to another—unless he sees a plane.
I mean, he gets excited at planes, if you can believe it. He’ll follow one barking until he gets stopped at the fence. Then he keeps on barking until he can’t hear it anymore. Then he looks around with this satisfied look like he’s saved us all and finds a place to lay down. You can see him thinking he’s earned his living.
I mean, this big, dumb spaniel who’s always getting burrs in his ears thinks planes are buzzards, I guess. The kids always praise him a lot when he does it and the way that little stubby tail goes is real funny as he manages to look humble and proud at the same time. Must work. Nobody’s been snatched by a buzzard yet.
The other day, I had the gate open and old Lucky started following a plane. Right out into the road he went without looking to see if it was safe (I said he was dumb) and a motorcycle came barreling down the street so fast I thought sure the dog had had it. The cycle skidded and barely missed him.
Well, that old dog don’t mean nothing to me personally, but my heart was pounding . . . . I felt like slugging the guy for going so fast, but it was just a kid and his face was all white and scared. So I said, “Go ahead. Run over him. He’s used to it.”

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