Luck

I've been thinking about luck alot lately, so I decided to look it up in the dictionary. Merriam Webster's Online Dictionary shows luck as a noun, a verb and a transitive verb.

As a transitive verb, luck means to prosper or succeed, especially through chance or good fortune; to come upon something desirable by chance.

Luck is many things to many people. Luck can be a lady tonight, there's the luck of the draw, stars are lucky, luck can be on your side or luck can be fleeting....do you feel lucky to be able to make your mortgage this month? Do you feel lucky some days, to have a job when so many other's don't? Are you lucky because you have healthy children? Do lottery winners really feel that lucky two or three years into their winnings, when every Tom, Dick and Harry has come out of the woodwork? How lucky did that actress feel after having won so many awards for her work, only to learn, possibly days later, that her husband had been cheating on her...consistently...for nearly a year?

Really, what is luck?

"I bought a strip of tickets and B bought the strip of tickets behind me," Birdy announced to me, at the youth baseball benefit a couple years ago.

"Yes?"

"B won the the 50-50. That's my luck, Baby, that's my luck."

"You've got great luck," I laughed.

"How do you figure?" he asked.

"You got me..." I told him, big cheezy smile on my face.

"So, I burned all my luck on you???"

"Yep."

Birdy got the last puppy in the litter. He let his best friend, Mark, choose between the two remaining pups. Was it luck?

I didn't know Max as a puppy. I met him in the prime of his life. He was six. Thinking about it now, I thought he was older. Perhaps the beginnings of his white beard made him seem older at the time.

Max was a nice boy, I just couldn't put my finger on what made him a nice boy.

It certainly wasn't his annoying arf. He arfed his brains out for years. Literally.

Birdy would pull in the driveway when we lived in town and Max would Arf! Arf! Arf!

Lord.

Max would Arf! every morning for breakfast.

Max would Arf! when the kids & I pulled into the driveway.

At the Cabin, there were a handful of dogs and they Arfed their brains out. On big weekends, tents scattered about the yard, bodies scattered about the house, all beds full, at daybreak, the Arf!ing began. It always seemed to be Max. Being just outside the bedroom windows, the kennel was in a horrid location. Either Birdy or Mark would get up, stomp to the bathroom window, whip it open and bellow, "MAX! SHUT UP."

Say good-bye to shut eye.

It never failed. One person would turn over in a tent half an acre away and Max and his brother, Lightning, were pretty sure there was something in it for them.

Angie, Mark's wife, and I always knew when the guys were back from: the goose pit, the duck blind, the tree stand, or town. The Arfing was phenomenal. Lightning barked, but Max? It was a distinct Arf!. Perfectly timed: Arf! pause. Arf! pause. Arf!Arf! pregnant pause...and the whole cycle began anew. Lord, let that dog out of that kennel! Do something with that hound...

Some days those dogs were exhausting, just like their Dads.

When Birdy finally got our house closed-in, and we'd sold the house in town too early, Max, SissyCat-Chloe, and Birdy moved into the new basement. I took the boys and Chelsea to live in one room at my parent's house.

Max was in heaven. He got to sleep in the bed with his Dad and there was even a cat to pester when nobody was looking.

Our bed sucked. It sucked terribly. I hated that bed. It was like sleeping in a hole, so being lucky to get shut-eye at my parents, with two kids and a golden retriever in that bed, my husband was hard-pressed to get me to sleep in a 50 degree basement, on a bed that was nothing but a glorified divet. With him.

I gave it a whirl, one time, and one time only, before our new mattress was delivered.

One time.

I woke up in the middle of the night, looking down the business end of a nose. It was wet. It was black. It was backed-up by two orbs giving me evil stink-eye.

Max.

Obviously, I had his spot.

It wasn't easy, but I was lucky to fall back asleep.

I woke up later, to his fat ass walking across me, trying to squeeze between me and his Dad. Are you kidding me? You want to be in this bed?

I guess he felt lucky to be off the hard floor and even luckier to be able to sleep next to his Daddy.

When we got here, Max still had a tendency to disappear into the timber for hours on end. Since he was stone-deaf, it was really difficult to locate Max. I'd put Max's collar on him and attach the leash. That was that. Max wouldn't move. Couldn't go anywhere. He would drop his head, drop his tail and lay down, positive I'd hobbled him for life. All this over a leash. Are you kidding me? That dog wouldn't take off if his ass was on fire.

I can remember when Birdy was doing the trim work in the house. One window, one door, one wall, one board at a time. Time-consuming, exactly measured, precisely cut, I didn't realize it until now, but I never heard him cuss and I can't recall him ever having screwed a piece up. He loved it.

But Max? He loved it more. It was alot of work for Max. Following his Daddy from room to room, while Daddy measured, back to the saw, while Daddy cut, only to get up and go with Daddy while he nailed the piece of trim in place. There was no rest for Max, but he didn't care. He knew he was just lucky to be helping his Daddy.

I was standing in the garage one day, Birdy & Max were working in the house, we still had the paper down over the hardwood floor in the hallway. I heard Birdy yelling, "No! Get outside! NO! NO! Dammit, Max!"...out the door comes Max, tail wagging, Birdy running behind him with paper towels.

"What's wrong? What'd he do?"

"He's pissing his way down the hall!!!!" woops. Lucky he didn't poop.

About the time we got settled in this new house, Dustin began a love affair with baseball. Never having been a jock myself--I rode horses instead--me and my three boys would head out to the front yard to play catch.

Max had to be in the kennel. He could not be in the yard with us while we played catch. Sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, I would miss a throw and Max would take off with the ball. I always miss the ball, but Max would not miss his opportunity at the ball...

Max would Arf! his brains out at us. It was rude, to be sure, to play ball without a black dog, but it was necessary or there was no catch for the people.

I don't know if Birdy ever really had to discipline Max. I'm not sure. I wasn't around when Max was a puppy. The only thing I ever knew Birdy to do was to take his hat off and shake it at Max.

Max hated that hat.

Hated, hated, hated Daddy's hat. Hated it.

It was the only thing that made the Arf!ing stop.

Birdy would take the hat off, make a face, shake the hat, point that hat...and Max would drop his head, drop his tail, and sulk off to the corner of his kennel. I know this sounds awful, but it was so funny. That mean ol' hat.

Here me and my kids are trying to play catch and Max was Arf!ing to beat the band. Much to Coach Ryan's dismay, nobody was wearing a hat. And that dog would NOT stop Arf!ing at us. Refused.

After about ten minutes of constant Arf!ing, I had an epiphany. I said to the boys, "Watch this."

I took my glove off, put it on my head, and stomped towards Max's kennel. When I got close enough, I bellowed, "No!", whipped the glove off my head, pointed it, shook it and Max dropped his head, dropped his tail and sulked off to the corner.

I could not believe it. If that didn't look totally stupid. But, it worked.

I'd pull into the driveway after work, and Max would start to Arf!. God, in heaven, shut the hell up, please. You're on a long list of people who want something from me and I don't want to hear it. God, stop. Stop the infernal Arf!ing. Please.

One day, it hit me.

No, don't stop Arf!ing. "Dillon, run let Max out, please. Shoot hoops and keep an eye on him, okay?"

I've always hated dog hair. Love dogs, hate the hair. As time wore on, I accepted the hair that flew about the garage while Max laid in front of the fan, sleeping peacefully, waiting for Daddy to come home.

He was always waiting for Daddy. I might be the Treat Train, but Max was his Daddy's dog.

"Are you taking him to the Cabin with you this weekend?" I'd ask Birdy.

"I don't have to. Why, you want him here?"

"Yeah, he can help me work in my flowers." And he always did. I'd pull weeds and Max would sniff and piss his way through the yard, eventually coming to rest about ten feet away. He'd lay down, cross his front legs, and wait for me to finish my flower bed. Then, he'd sniff and piss our way to the next flower bed.

I never had to look up to know if Max was there, I could smell him.

He smelled like poop.

Literally. Just like poop.

No matter how strong the breeze, Max always had company in the summer. There was a constant gnat-pack swarming around his butt. All summer long.

He loved to help me water the flowers. Max came right up to the hose to get a drink, just like kids. I'd hold the hose out and Max would try to lap the water, in the air. It was the funniest thing to see, this dog lapping at the stream of water, smelling like poop.

Of course, being a water dog, Max loved water in any form. He wasn't too proud to waller in a big puddle, fish guts, the creek, the hose. Water was water. "He found mud," Dillon would say. Runs a close second to water, sugar.

"Get him a pool," I said to my husband one day.

So Birdy stopped at Lowe's or WalMart and picked up two plastic kiddie pools. One for Max, one for Katie. How sweet was that? Explain the concept to the dogs, honey...like they care...Max loved his pool. Every spring, we'd drag out the pools, fill them with water and have wet dog hair stuck to everything in the garage.

Two years ago, on opening weekend of dove season, it was really, really blisteringly hot. It was awful. Birdy and Dillon took Katie to the sunflower patch out front to dove hunt. Max? Max got stuck in the sky kennel in the garage, in front of the fan.

"Put him in the sky kennel in the basement. It's much cooler down there with the air on," I suggested.

"He'll be fine right here," Birdy said.

"But the gate on the sky kennel is broke."

Birdy shoved a bar stool in front of the door, "That'll hold him."

That wouldn't hold a strong breeze, bonehead..."I don't think that's going to work," I told him, heading back into the house to can my jam.

I took a break on the porch swing, watching my husband, my son, and Katie hunt doves...with Max.

Birdy walked up to the porch, "Well, he's not totally deaf."

"What's he doing out there???" That's my baby. He's old. He doesn't need to be out in that horrid heat digging dead doves out of the weeds for you!

"He heard the shotgun, comes sulking out to the patch, head down, tail between his legs, scared to death. I let him hunt. He's doing well," and before I could say anything else, "I have a bucket of water out there for him, too."

You'd better.

I could go on and on and on about Max. The most demanding, annoying hound I'd ever met, until Chelsea.

Or perhaps, by the time Chelsea became demanding and annoying, Max had mellowed? I don't know.

There was always something reassuring about borrowing a book from Rupp Library and knowing, as I sat in the garage reading that book, an old black dog would come lay next to me so I could love him.

Or watching Max wander aimlessly about the yard, tail-wagging, happily sniffing and pissing his way through my flowers.

"He's so happy you finally found him a good woman," I'd tell Birdy.

Or sitting in the garage, putting my make-up on, old white-faced black dog laying at my feet, needing me to pet him with one hand while I put my eyeliner on with the other hand.

He'd happily greet anyone who pulled in the driveway, the old white-faced black dog. Tail wagging, almost smiling, gnats swarming, as he cheerfullly shared his smell with company. Never once, in all the years I'd known him, did I ever think Max would bite someone. He'd take an arm off at the shoulder for a treat, but I don't know that he ever considered biting a soul.

The last puppy in the litter became the last puppy in the litter. Cajun, Chad's pup, Max's brother, died of cancer about three years ago. Lightning, Mark's pup, Max's other brother, had congestive heart failure, too, and they lost him a little over a year ago.

Max fought his battle with congestive heart failure, tough as nails, his Dad would say.

And he was.

But his kidneys weren't as tough as nails.

One dog, positive he was going to die of neglect, was going to die from kidney failure.

The vet offered us dialysis, but Max's Dad finally said no. Enough is enough for a good dog. When you start doing things for yourself and not for the pet, it's time to stop.

Our luck had finally run out.

Were we lucky to have those family portraits taken by Jill Sanders? Not to hear my husband tell. He bitched and moaned and groaned and complained for days. That was before he found out how much I paid for those portraits. Those beautiful family portraits taken on the beautiful family farm surrounded by the beautiful ancient oak trees that are no more, with our beautiful children and wonderful dogs. I'm pretty sure my husband feels very lucky to have had a wife who insisted on a family portrait with the dogs, or we wouldn't have the beautiful portrait of a man and his dog, who is now a memory, at the top of this post.

Are we lucky to live in a new house out in the country? Yes, we are.

Are we lucky to have healthy children? Without a doubt, we're lucky.

Are we lucky to have healthy parents? Very lucky.

Are we lucky to have jobs? Yep, that's luck in this economy.

Let's face it, we're never going to win seven-digits-in-front-of-the-decimal-point- please-Lord-lottery, and that's okay. We've got our luck in other places, wouldn't you agree?

Birdy got the last puppy in the litter, and he was the last puppy in the litter.

We're pretty lucky.