My wife takes daily walks in our rural community. She follows the red dirt road around the farm. Sometimes alone, sometimes with our two boxers, not ever thinking a puppy might emerge from the woods and follow her home. I was sitting on the porch watching as the black Aussiedor (black lab and Australian shepherd mix) puppy pranced along behind her like she’d hit the lottery. And we named her Lucky, because she is lucky she found us, but we have recently felt the lucky ones. She’s brought much happiness to the farmhouse.
Lucky has a broken tail and was full of every worm possible. Probably dropped off by some numbskull, some redneck, somebody who didn’t give a damn if she lived or died. But she lives like royalty now.
The day the puppy followed her home, I had been working on a story, “The Luck Genome Project,“ about a man who purchases a luck gene. The luck gene is supposed to make him lucky in all his endeavors, especially book publication. So it was so ironic when the puppy got lucky and found my wife on the same day I finished the story. And it really felt weird when my wife said she wanted to name her Lucky. (She had no idea I was writing the story about luck.) So maybe, just maybe, luck has really arrived.