I was told that I’m going to become a Lucky Dog today, but so far, my day has not been very lucky.
First, they woke me up at the crack of dawn and loaded me and a few of my other canine comrades into crates. I’ve been riding in the back of a van for what seems like hours. To make matters worse, Snuffles (in the crate above me) seems to be in need of a motion sickness bag, and Cujo (next door) won’t stop talking about his ruff life on the streets.
Of course, I could be back at that loud, scary place they call a shelter, so maybe I AM on my way to someplace better?
There’s never been a time when I haven’t wanted a dog. In fact, when I was six years old, I wanted to BE a dog when I grew up.
And while my love of dogs was never a secret, the idea of getting a family pet never gained much momentum in my house — beyond parakeets and a pair of fire-bellied toads. Every chance I had to spend time with a dog was precious, and, to me, dog owners were the luckiest people on earth.
It would be close to 30 years later before I shared that luck.
I became involved with Lucky Dog last October when I adopted Menchie, a six-month-old Puerto Rican street dog. I fell in love with his little face on the Lucky Dog website, and I knew my search was over.
People often ask me how I got involved in dog rescue. The story will probably surprise you. It was not something well planned, not something that I grew up wanting to do. It was something that I fell into because I was a lonely living in DC. I wanted a friend — even if that friend had four legs instead if two.
I found Sparky after a lot of random googling. His photo showed him trotting along with a pink ball in his mouth. His bio said he loved playing fetch and soccer with his family. It was love at first sight (at least for me).
