Lucky And Unlucky





[April 28, 1877.]



As letters telling of dogs and their doings occasionally appear in the

Spectator, perhaps the following rather pathetic anecdote of a dog I

know well may also find a place there. Two or three weeks ago, Lucky--so

called from having, when an outcast, found its present happy

home--perhaps by way of showing its gratitude to its benefactors,

presented them with five small Luckys, or rather, with one exception,

Unluckys, as the melancholy process always resorted to with these

too-blooming families had to be carried out in this instance, and the

five were reduced to one. Poor Lucky was inconsolable, looking

everywhere for them, and looking, too, with such appealing eyes into the

faces of her friends, and asking them so plainly where they were. Near

her kennel was an inclosed piece of ground for pigeons, and as it was

discovered that rats were carrying off the young pigeons, and as Lucky

had carried off one or two rats, it was decided one night to leave the

door of the pigeons' house open, that Lucky might have the run of it;

and the next morning, side by side with the puppy, was found a baby

pigeon, looking quite bright and at home, but hungry, and poor Lucky,

proud of the addition it had made to its family, was looking more

contented than it had done since the loss of its puppies. The pigeon

must have fallen from its nest, some distance from the ground, and

Lucky, while on the look-out for rats, must have found it, and carefully

carried it to her kennel, with the vague feeling, perhaps, that it was

one of her own lost little ones "developing" a little curiously.

Unfortunately the arrangement could not be a permanent one, and the

famished little pigeon was put back into its own nest, to be found again

the next morning in Lucky's bed, but this time dead. The old birds seem

to have deserted it, and it had died of starvation. If Lucky could give

this account herself, it might be much more interesting, for it was

thought not at all improbable that she had actually rescued from a rat

the bird she was so anxious to adopt, as a small wound was found upon

it such as a rat might have made, and as a young pigeon had been taken

the night before from the same nest; but this is only conjecture, and

Lucky only could tell us the facts; how often it would be interesting,

if our humble friends could tell us their adventures! A friend who is

staying with me tells me that a few months ago her dog was lost for a

week, and at the end of that time it came back one night in a scarlet

ruff and spangles, and looking altogether dreadfully dissipated.

Evidently it had been the "performing dog" in some show, "Punch and

Judy" perhaps; being naturally a clever dog, it would quickly have

learnt the part of "Toby" in that delightful and time-honoured

exhibition. If it could only have written also an article entitled "A

Week of My Life," with what pleasure the Spectator would have

published it!



S.





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