My dog moved on up to that home in the sky, where the weather is cold and crisp, but never chills you. Where there's an unlimited supply of garbage bags full of meat and bones to forage through, where the humans always smile and pat you, and where the only other dogs are female and frisky.
He was parachuted into my life, literally. I found him as a partially-weaned pup with his forepaws tangled in a billowing plastic shopping bag, being blown down the street one cold February day so many years ago. An eskimo dog with long, thick matted fur like a muskox, he looked like a Rastafarian having a bad hair day. Consequently he was malodorious, and his dingleberries were legendary.
Through the last 14 years Lucky has had to put up with a lot of adversity. He was trapped under someone's house for 10 days without food or water. His chain got tangled around him and cut him down to the bone. From the age of 4 months he never stepped into the warmth of a heated house through Arctic blizzards, severe windchills and hurricane strength winds. I even ran him over twice in the same day last year. But as resilient and forgiving as he was, he could not dodge the onslaught of old age.
My old friend, I salute your toughness, but also your kindness and friendship. I trust we will meet again.
I miss you. Rest in peace, my old dog.