We’re so Lucky to have a loving pooch
AS I approach the estate, I spy a Jack Russell perched in the window of the house.
When I pull into the driveway, his ears start to curl, chocolate button eyes pop and the minute I alight from the car, he leaps onto the floor and skids into the hallway where he nosebumps the glass door while rattling open the handle.
I am greeted with licks on the cheeks, on the lips, and he nips at my hair before he races around the kitchen in laps and returns with a toy, tennis ball, or shoe – his cue for playtime.
He then leads me and my six-year old niece into the garden and dares us to grab at whichever squeaky toy he has in his mouth or to tug at his knotted odd-sock chain.
While we bounce up and down on the trampoline, he growls underneath, seeming to plea: “Please play with me!”
What used to be Frances and Mae days are now Lucky, Fran & Mae days.
One September afternoon last year, my brother and his family drove down to the Dog Shelter in Rathdrum.
Neil, James and Mae were excited about which pet they were going to pick and each had chosen a name that would later be raffled for a winner.
A line of mutts met them in the foyer. Small dogs; big dogs; furry dogs; skinny dogs; friendly dogs, shy dogs, and even dogs that turned their heads away and ignored them. But, one wiry little pup, white with a tan face, actually auditioned for the job.
He kissed the children incessantly, barking madly and wagging his tail, repeatedly pushing their chests with his paws and twirling around on hind legs with ballerina tippy-toes.
What impressed my sister-in-law was how wellbehaved he was on their practice walk and how easy to steer on his lead. Lucky he was called, so there was no need for the secret notes waiting in pockets to be chosen for his name.
Since then, he’s chewed 12 soccer balls to bits, as well as plant pots and Lego figures, socks and underwear, even envelopes dragged from the letter box. Holes have been dug into the lawn and flowers uprooted.
He spent the summer swallowing bees, his face blowing up like a bulldog when they stung the inside of his mouth.
In the winter, he likes to stretch out on a giant carpet pillow, blocking everyone from the fire.
“He’s too cute,” says Neil, stroking the dog’s sleek coat.
“Well, he sure is lucky,” I reply. “That your family picked him.”
“He picked us,” James reminds me and Mae pipes up, “We’re lucky too.” Frances Browner, Greystones, Co Wicklow
If you would like your pet featured in this column please send a story of 440 words and a photograph to snews@independent.ie clearly labelled MY PET