This is Lucky. He died last week. He was my father's dog. We had him for roughly five years. He was not an old dog. He died of cancer. (I've since learned that German Shepherds are the most susceptible breed to this, but this was a heartbreaking way to learn.)
I do not like dogs. No, I do not. I am most definitely a cat person. Let me reiterate that I. Do. Not. Like. Dogs. I don't. ...But when I do... Oh, Lord, I love them. I do.
I loved Lucky. He was my dad's "war dog," but he was my "liddol boi." I may in time talk about his personality in depth, and the funny anectdote of how I let him loose on his first day home. Or how it took him FOREVER to go belly-up for any of us (me first), and was scared of Dallas for the longest time. His drug addiction, his inability to play... All the heartbreaking things that endeared us to him.
But not right now. I'm GOING to talk about his death. We don't talk about DEATH much. Why it happens, how it happens. Events leading up to it. We don't squish it between our teeth or chew it slowly. We bite and swallow and move on. I guess most of us like to take a Mr. Magorium approach and simply say, "He died," and carry on with life. Some people feel the urge to fight to preserve a memory. This is my writer's attempt.
I like to think that Lucky knew he was going to die.
I've always believed that animals have had a better and different understanding of life; that they are not only familiar, but comfortable with death. This is why, I feel, animals are able to live so honestly and do not question themselves when fighting to the death to protect their masters, human family, and kin. I've never doubted that animals have always been able to sense things approaching, and that they are extremely sensitive to death.
I firmly believe that Lucky chose his cancer.
I would not be surprised to learn that his cancer was his way of protecting someone else.
Lucky is not an old dog. Persia is. She is fat. She has trouble breathing. It's hard for her to walk sometimes. She's also the one who taught Lucky how to play. If anything, we were prepared for Persia to die first. (Not any time soon, but just first.)
My dad has a dangerous job. He has assisted in the finding, capture, and conviction of many dangerous, evil people. He is also Lucky's master. And my father is not a young man, light of foot and quick of reflex.
My brother is training in the Special Forces. Right now he has pneumonia, only exacerbated by his asthma. A very potentially dangerous combination -- and coming out of SERE school, it could have been a lot worse. Lucky adores my brother.
I can see very well the night Death came to my family's door. I can see Lucky greet him, familiar and unafraid. Death scratches Lucky behind the ears and steps into the living room, but Lucky will not let him pass. I can hear Death tell my father's war dog that he has business there that night, and I can also hear the low growl in Lucky's throat to let him know he won't get far.
I can see now the deal Lucky made with Death that night. To preserve another that he loved, he agreed to take a slow, silent killer upon himself. One that we wouldn't be able to notice until it was too late to save him.
I cannot but be convinced that Lucky knew he was going to die -- and asked that it be him.
My Lucky liddol boi.
