Dinner At Eight

   Both of my parents are gone.  My beautiful Mom died in 2008, and my handsome Dad, this past Tuesday July 15th, 2014.  It was my 52nd birthday.

   During my Mother's long illness, and once she had gone, Truman was one of my main comforts.  Mom had met Truman many times over the years, and she loved him.  He didn't know what to make of her boisterous, American affection, especially the first time they met, but my Mother was a total animal lover; Truman soon gave in to her charms.  

   As in-your-face as Mom could be when talking to him, she was completely calm and gentle when stroking Truman.  She loved stroking him, and he adored her touch.  He wanted to be next to her.

   She last saw Truman 6 years ago, when she travelled to Edinburgh for our civil-partnership ceremony.  She died 6 months later; he, 2 years after her.

   She never met Lucky.

   Dad was a dog man.  He gave my sister a Yorkshire Terrier for Christmas in 1977, when she was 19.  She was presented with a new pair of Frye boots that she had been longing for, and a young puppy was inside one of them.  Dad had driven to Pennsylvania days before to get the pup, because he knew she wanted one.  My Sister called him Benji.  She took him to University with her, and she adored him.  A year or so later, he was joined by Scooter, another Yorkie whom she'd adopted.

   My sister married a few years later, and when her children arrived, Benji became jealous and growly, and Scooter became yappy.  This wasn't a good equation, with two small children, so Scooter was adopted by another family, and Benji moved to Florida to live with my Father.

   Dad renamed him Benjamin, and there he stayed, with my Dad, for the rest of his long life.  Dad and Benjamin understood each other.  Dad was single, he worked evenings, and dated quite a bit.  Ben, not really a people dog, fitted into Dad's life with ease.

   My Father had only two other dogs in his life, and he had them to the end; Lucy and Charlie. With them he was no disciplinarian, believe me.  But although he might have been hesitant at first about adopting them, he loved those two pups with all his heart.    

   He never met Lucky, but we never thought we would meet Lucky either.

  

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   Lucky has a bed, and although he's allowed on our couch, he has grown to prefer his bed.  And why not?  It has padded sides.  Who on earth would not want a bed with padded sides?

   The other night, after my birthday meal, we eventually heard the news that my dear Dad had died.  Scot went to his bed, but I stayed up.  I was relieved, because my Father had been suffering so deeply for 11 weeks, but I was brokenhearted with grief.  I loved Dad so much, and I could not believe he was gone.  

   If you've lost both of your parents, you will understand what a lonely feeling it is, even with other loved ones close by.

   I cried.  And my most precious boy Lucky left his comfortable bed, and climbed up onto the couch next to me, turned a few times, and curled up with his head on my lap.  He knew.  I needed him.

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My old boy and I, 2005.  Key West. 

The face which follows me every time I get up.

I'll say it again; Lucky, indeed.