Luckie: When Fate Wore Fur

It was the middle of the night in Santa Ana, and everything was quiet in that eerie, movie-scene way. The streetlights flickered just enough to make the shadows seem longer, and every little sound felt louder as I drove down the dead-end cul-de-sac. Out of nowhere, a tiny, whitish grey creature darted into the road, forcing me to slam on my brakes. For a moment, I thought I imagined him—a ghost of some stray. But then he stopped, stood there like he was daring me to change his fate, and as I opened the car door, he didn’t run away. Instead, this frail little creature bolted toward me, jumped up onto my lap and into my arms, and hugged me.

I’m not exaggerating—he wrapped his skinny little paws around my neck like we’d known each other forever. It was the kind of moment that makes you wonder if the universe has been planning something behind your back. A few nights before, I’d had the most vivid, almost too-real-to-be-just-a-dream vision about finding a dog. In the dream, I was at a park, and there he was—a scruffy little guy named Hark. I woke up so shaken by how tangible it felt that I called Mike and my mom to tell them about it. At the time, they probably thought, “Cool story, but also, maybe stop eating weird snacks before bed?”

And yet, there he was. Not in a park, but on a random cul-de-sac, looking like a living, breathing manifestation of that dream. I didn’t name him Hark, though. I named him Luckie, because that’s what he was—luck, timing, and destiny wrapped up in what we deemed a little Buddha with his soulful eyes.

When I first got him, I thought I was rescuing him. But the truth is, he rescued me. (Sorry for the cliche but grief is wack as fuck and makes you start talking like this). Luckie taught me to slow down and find joy in the little things. A patch of sunlight on the floor was his personal spa. A walk could take forever because every single blade of grass and cool breeze deserved his attention. He reminded me that life doesn’t need to be grand or flashy to be meaningful—it just needs to be lived well - taking in the things that make us truly feel and usually heal.

Luckie wasn’t just a dog; he was my dog. He only let me hold him. It was like he decided early on that I was his person, and that was that. There was something sacred in the way he let himself go completely limp in my arms, trusting me to keep him safe. I never took that for granted, and now, I’ll miss it more than words can say.

Luckie has continued on his Soul's path in September, but even in his absence, he’s never truly felt far away. A couple of times since that day, I’ve woken up hearing him in my ear—soft, familiar sounds that feel like his way of saying, “I’m still here.” And maybe he is, just in a different form.

Here’s what I know: Luckie would look me dead straight in the eye and telepathically hockey check me back into reality. If he saw me being all gooey about him right now, he'd literally pull a deliverance on me and turn his head away and just sit there. He lived his life with a kind of reckless joy, a super rad voice that I've never head in any other dog, and "we don't fuck with that" attitude when it came to anything that didn't make us better. He hated people touching his paws as much as I hate pedicures, and honestly, knowing he felt the same made me feel seen. There’s nothing like a dog glaring at you mid-nail-trim to say, “Yeah, this is a boundary, and we’re united in this.” He taught me that life is brighter with laughter, kinder with love, and better in every way when shared with a soul as pure and joyful as his.

So, I’ll keep going—taking long walks, sneaking snacks I shouldn’t, and finding joy even in the quiet, uneventful moments. And every now and then, when I catch myself smiling at nothing or think I hear his dramatic sigh, I’ll know he’s still here, reminding me to live like he did—with love, loyalty, and absolutely no shame in taking the last bite.

Run free, Luckie. You were the best boy, and somehow, you still are.