Lucky has finally submitted to the seasonal indignity of donning her red down dog coat. We’d thought that when the temperatures plummeted the squirrels would disappear and she would lose interest in running outside. But while it is true there isn’t the frantic activity that accompanied late fall, the bared branches have revealed the secret pathways of the hardiest of the squirrels Lucky’s terrier breed was bred to chase.
All twelve years of her long life: chasing squirrels through all the seasons. Lush summer days, the squirrels hidden amongst the thick leaves, only visible on mad dashes. Fall and spring: frantic running, jumping, scrambling, playing tag in circles around tree trunks. In the deep freeze of winter, Lucky hand-carried home from the yard against her will before she catches cold. Re-installed on her warm perch at the window only to start the game all over again. A blast of excited barks: “Let me out now, now, now!” Her two furry step-siblings, Molly and Sammy, not so interested in squirrels, but not wanting to miss any opportunity to cut loose. And all of us curious but not too worried about it. What would Lucky do with a squirrel if she ever did catch one? Season after season. Year after year. Always nearly, almost, just missed, not quite.
Then this fall, we found out. Lucky leading the pack out to the farthest tree and even faster back to the front stoop, all three of them bursting with excited agitation. In her mouth, held gently as a pup, a baby squirrel. Understandably rattled, the squirrel looked squarely at me with unblinking eyes. Okay, I screamed a little. But nevertheless, I produced a towel, accepting the tiny, quivering body as the gift he was intended to be, whisking him to safety where after a breathless moment of stunned silence the tiny creature scampered gracefully away. Oh life, oh squirrel life, oh dog life, oh my life.
Since then, things are different. Lucky still sits in the window watching diligently. When she spots a squirrel, she still barks like crazy, begging to be let out. Wrapped in down, she still runs as fast as her little legs will carry her. Now, in her well-seasoned years, with just a touch of arthritis in her knees, perhaps not so fast as before, but fast enough. And then she just sits down and watches.
Emboldened, the handful of intrepid deep winter squirrels now scamper freely around her, leaping from one fully exposed bare branch to another, right above her cold, wet upturned nose. But Lucky no longer chases squirrels.
She loves them.
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