Lucky

 

I remember it was dark. Light above was yellow and muted from the small dome of a cab's interior lamp. I was sitting in the backseat between people, grown up people. We were going. Going on a trip, an epic adventure of which I had no clue. The light in the car went on because a door was open. The door was to my right. Through the door came the crouching figure of my father. I remember his watchband around his right wrist, his white t-shirt and hair slicked back matching the color of night from which he emerged. My focus was on something he was holding. I remember him coming toward me, extending his right hand to give me something. I noticed that what he was about to pass into my lap was moving. It was a puppy. A tan and brown short haired mutt.

Our journey that night took us to the Staten Island Ferry, the Number 1 subway, to Penn Station and onto a train bound for Baltimore. There were no seats, so we had to stand, or sit on the floor for most of the way. My mother was not happy about something. Well, she was not happy about a lot of things. Mostly, I think, she was not happy that my father had given me a puppy just before we were to leave on our long road to Baltimore.

The dog grew quickly, much faster than I did. I remember we kept him in the cellar. This is the cellar where my memories are stacked and constantly falling only to be re-stacked a gain. It was small and dark with a comforting, wholesome, earthy smell. There was a couch down there, and a door that led to a small fenced-in back yard where we would let the dog out. The yard faced a common alley where metal trash cans would be set out for collection. This dog always seemed happy and playful. I would sit on that couch and sing to him. He would wag his tail wildly, sit on my lap, and lick my face. Legend has it that my dad once had a dog named “Lucky.” This was born out by old black and white photos.  So, my puppy got the name of Lucky as well.

I did not get to keep him long however. After a trip we returned home to hear that the garbage men had inadvertently left my grandmother’s back gate open, and Lucky ran away. I was sad that I would not be playing with him anymore. Only somewhat concerned for his safety because I always imagined him happy, free, and running with the trash truck all over the alleys of Baltimore. Forever and always Lucky the puppy.