Losing Lucky

“What have you got in your mouth!”

It’s not a game! Not this time! Bloody hell! Who the hell knew that owning a Labrador was like owning a vacuum cleaner with teeth? I dart around one side of the table, and he, like a black shadow with eyes, a maniacal grin, and what can only be described as an evil genius doggy laugh- mwhahaha, you think you can catch me! Foolish human!- darts the other way.

“Stop! You bloody-” ooof! Nope. Slipperier than a greased pig- I wonder what a greased pig feels like? It couldn’t be slipperier than a Labby with something inedible in their mouth!

Finally cornered, I dive and wrestle the sucker into a headlock, prying the jaws open and plunging my whole hand into the wet, toothy maw that reeks of- oh god what did you eat!? I hold my breath as I rummage almost down his entire throat, wrangling with his tongue-ew gross!- as a shudder of revulsion ripples down my spine and settles in my stomach. With determination, I bravely search, fingers groping for the mystery object.

There it is! I retract a…? it’s not recognisable at first. I look at the object in my hand, mangled, teeth marked and chewed beyond recognition. 

“My retainer! You bloody…. how the…?” I grip the mangled piece of plastic that is supposed to keep my teeth aligned and ensure the thousands of dollars spent at the orthodontist are not wasted, and fume at my dog. He sits, tongue lolling as if we have just had the most terrific bonding experience. I can’t even look at him as I throw the expensive bit of plastic in the trash and reach for my phone.

“Hi, it’s Jade Keighery, I need to make an appointment to have a replacement retainer made… Yes I know… Yep, my third one in as many months. I don’t suppose you know anyone who wants a slightly used Labrador who seems to be addicted to retainers, do you?” I glare at the dog, who is sitting at my feet, heat tilted and panting, tongue out and goofy grin on his face.

Appointment made, I sit on the couch and studiously ignore my mutt. He nuzzles up beside me with hot, fetid breath.

“I am not talking to you, you bloody bugger!”

Lick, whine, nuzzle!

“Nope, not friends anymore!”

Head on lap, roll over for a belly scratch.

“Leave me alone, I can’t even look at you right now, I’m so cross!”

Bork, nuzzle, lick.

“No.”

Whine, big eyes, panting tongue, clawed paw on my leg. 

I sigh, I’m such a sucker, as I cave in and scratch my fingers through his fur, “You are lucky you’re cute.” 

Bork,  hrumpf, sneeze!

“Yeah, I know, it’s walk time.” It’s our daily thing but I’m still not happy, bloody stupid mutt. I kiss his head as I get out the lead.

Most people think walking their dog is a form of exercise, not for us. For me, it’s an exercise in frustration, a cumulative study of torture and pain in the 21st Century. Either my arm is being ripped from the socket as nearly 30 kilos of dog tugs towards the next utterly irresistible pee-mail, or, just as we finally get momentum, he rips my arm the other way as he plants himself nose down in the middle of deep olfactory contemplation, with no warning at all.

I watch with envy as an immaculately groomed and beautifully behaved Collie trots alongside her owner, lead loose and tail wagging as they approach from the other direction. 

Immediately, and as per his usual M.O, my psycho goes into ballistic mode! He lurches at the lead, emitting a deep throaty bark that ends in hysterical, high pitched yelps. It’s a sound like no other, and no matter what I do, what food I try to motivate him with, he won’t stop! The moment he sees another dog, he’s all petulant toddler denied a treat, a full on doggie tantrum.

I stop still, holding the leash firmly as I have been told to do, and the crazy lunatic bounces, whines, yells and cries so much that the owner of the other dog crosses the road to avoid us. Oh no! I roll my eyes heavenward hoping for some divine intervention, or a portal to another world. How humiliating! My dog is now flat on the ground refusing to move. He does this every time he sees another dog, but they don’t want to come near him, and really, I can’t blame them. He’s so embarrassing.

“I’m sorry, he’s friendly!” I reassure the other owner, who peers down her judgmental nose at me and my boof-head of a dog.

“C’m on, you loser,” I hiss, tugging on the lead, as my dog hyper-fixates on the retreating form of the stunning Collie, from his supine position on the ground. “C’m on, Lucky, you’re embarrassing me!”

I suspect that if dogs could be diagnosed, mine would fall on the spectrum. He has no social competence with other dogs, can’t read their social cues, obsesses over toys, constantly mouths and chews, suffers anxiety, hates to be left at home alone, is petrified of closed doors and is generally a bit quirky. If that doesn’t scream neuro-divergent-dog, well then, he must be just dumb. He is the only puppy I know of, who failed puppy school.

At the dinner table, it’s just me and him, him with the biggest eyes, limpid with love, sharing his starvation through the saddest of pitiful gazes, fixed not on me, but on every mouthful of food I eat. One thing I am grateful for though, is that he is not a drooler. He’s just a pathetic, ever-so-hungry, never-been-fed-before, sook and he drops his chin on my lap as I eat, nose twitching, tongue tasting the air like a noisy lizard.

Just to be clear, I do feed him. Twice a day with countless snacks (both planned and stolen) in between. He is spoiled too. Not the cheap nasty supermarket kibble, that’s more cardboard and calories than nutrition, but the expensive stuff. You know the stuff that only the vet and the expensive pet stores carry. Supposedly it makes for healthier weight Labradors, but mine is still a little more porky pie than sleek and svelte.

After I have fed him, and he has bounced around the yard a few times using his big puppy voice to warn neighbouring cats, birds, dogs and robbers to stay out of our space, he comes inside, proud as punch for a job well done. As I curl up alone in my too large bed, I hear the happy staccato click of nails on floorboards as he trit-trots into my room. He does a little happy dance, feet scuffling before he leaps up onto my bed.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” I ask. He just huffs and flops down with a sigh, his chin on my thigh. I snuggle up to him and kiss his sweet face and he licks me right back. Yep still stinky! I lay down, one hand ruffling through the thick fur at his neck and listen to his breathing as it slowly eases into snuffling snores. My Lucky Labby, all mine, and all love.

***

When I get in from work, the next day, something is off. I know it with the dread of every parent who hears silence when there should be sound. 

“What have you done?” The words slide from my lips before I can see anything inside. I just know that I’m not going to like what’s behind the door. He’s so quite, no barking a greeting, no hysterical skelter of paws against the floorboards as he bounds about in a joyous welcome. I push back my front door to see…rubbish! Yep, my whole living area is scattered with rubbish as the contents of my trash can are scattered from one end of the house to the other. Where is my boy?

“Lucky?” I call. “What the hell, you naughty dog, where are you?”

He is laying on the ground, his head lolling on his paws, barely able to lift it as he whines at my entrance. Not good! I grope inside my purse for my phone as I rush to him.

“Lucky, baby!” I croon as I run my hands over him looking for obvious injuries. He just whines again and his tail thumps the floor once as he tries to lick my hand. I look up the vet number and dial. I can’t remember what I say but then end result has me scooping my boy from the ground and rushing him to the emergency vet.

I carry him into the After Hours Surgery, and sign us in, nursing all 30 kilos in my lap. He licks my face, as if he is trying to comfort me in my distress. Oh my baby! I hadn’t realised that I was crying until he licked the tears from my face.

“Lucky Keighery,” the nurse called and I stood and carried him into the examination room.

The next few minutes are a blur, but Lucky is kept in for tests and possible surgery. It is likely that he has swallowed something and that has caused a blockage in his stomach or bowels. An X-ray will tell us more but I am to go home and wait and will know the outcome later. They tell me all this, to not worry, he’s in good hands, but I feel empty and alone, and scared and sick.

I stare at the rubbish strewn across my house. How had the bloody dog managed to get into the bin? God knows what was in there and what he ate. I pick it all up, not realising that tears are coursing down my face. Bloody Lucky! He’s such a naughty dog.

***

The waiting room at the veterinary surgery is busy today, dogs cats and even a cage with some kind of rodent, fill the space. I sit, head down, waiting. I haven’t slept, just lay all night with the phone in my hand dreading and hoping for a call in equal parts. An obstruction had been found, and surgery was considered to be the only option, and it had been scheduled for earlier this morning.

“Lucky?” The nurse calls and I look up. “Come through please.” The examination cubicle is empty. I sit. I wait. I actually pray.

“Hi Jade,” the vet says as she enters. “I’m Paula the vet in charge today. Lucky is holding his own for now, but surgery is not without risk and we won’t know for a few days how successful it has been…” there are more words but I can’t hear through the pounding of my heart.

“Will he be Ok?” It was all I wanted to know.

“We will know in a few days, if you would like to see him we can take you through now.”

If? What a stupid word. I want to see my baby, no question. The Vet leads me through the functional end of the surgery, past cages of pets in various stages of recovery. In a pen at the back, was my baby, my Lucky, IV fluids taped to his paw, laying in a groggy stupor, his tummy shaved and bandaged. He sees me come and lifts his head, but I soothe him and crawl into the pen to hold him tightly, but not too tight, kissing his doggy face. He laps at me with little whimpering noises and his tail thumps once as if that’s all the energy he has.

For three days I sit with him petting his head and speaking to him softly, whenever they allow me in, but the fourth day I am directed upon my arrival to an exam room.

“Lucky is not doing as well as we would like,” the vet says. “His bloods indicate an infection…” she continues with vet speak that I don’t understand.

“Is there anything else we can do?”

“We can try more surgery, but even if we open him up again, I do not think we will have any more success. The plastic that we removed the first time was sharp with jagged edges. It could have damaged him internally in so many different areas, it’s impossible to be sure that we will find them all.”

“What would you do if he were your baby?”

“Lucky is in pain.” Her voice is soft with compassion. “We’ve increased his medication to try to keep him comfortable, but he’s not getting better. I believe the kindest thing would be to let him go.”

“I can’t lose my Lucky boy.”

It’s a mantra I repeat as I curl up in the pen with him. I kiss his doggy face and scratch his head they way he likes. He peers at me with bleery eyes unable to lift his head. It’s time. I sob brokenly, uncaring of who heard. Lucky has been placed in a pen set away from the rest of the activity, but we are not private. I don’t care. I sob as I tell my baby how much I love him, love all his quirks, love the way he can’t walk in a straight line without stopping every moment for a sniff, love the way he stares at my dinner and begs a scrap from the table, love the way he protects me from night time invaders and from the postman, love the way he loves me every day.

When the vet gently eases him on to sleep, I hold his head as it gets heavier until it’s just him and me, and I whisper all my love into his velvet black ear, then he’s gone. My Lucky is gone, and I lean into his fur and let the tears fall.