The True Story of a Little Mexico Street Dog Who Goes International
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Not only for animal lovers, but a great family read-aloud tale, as well, Lucky Dog--The True Story of a Little Mexico City Street Dog Who Goes International, is the humorous, heart-warming and adventurous story of love, friendship and survival as only this endearing yellow mutt can tell it.
And Lucky has quite the story to tell, from the time Mama and Papa find the scruffy little guy, starving and dying of pneumonia on the streets of Mexico City, hoping desperately for a place to call 'home.' They immediately adopt him, and Lucky soon adjusts to the 'pampered pooch' lifestyle as he and his new-found parents discover the beauty and culture of Mexico. But they do not remain South of the Border forever, and are transferred back home to Southern California, Lucky, of course, in tow. For two years they enjoy the perfect beach life--with a little camping thrown in. However, this must end when they move again, this time to The Netherlands and London, where Lucky soon earns more stamps in his passport than most Americans as they explore Europe together.
But Lucky's life is not always on the travel circuit. It also leads him to more kennels than he can count; a bullet in the chest; and a battle with cancer. But the little mutt always lives up to his name and is definitely considered winner of the 'doggie lotto' by all who meet him.
; May 2009
220 pages; ISBN 9780744318159Read online
, or download in secure PDF format
Title: Lucky Dog
Author: Christie Shary
My name is Lucky. I think it fits me well. For I have a set of adoptive parents that drool over me like a new-born baby. I have an orange and rust-colored puffy paisley bed and a bright yellow raincoat with ‘Lucky’ embroidered on its hood. I enjoy custom-prepared food each night, and I even have more stamps in my passport than most Americans. Of course, my passport is an Official European Union Pet Passport, and it’s enabled me to travel the world. But that’s another story.
I have to tell you, though, life wasn’t always like this for me. For I’m a street dog by trade – a Mexico City street dog, at that. I remember wandering the streets of the largest city in the world day after day with only an odd scrap of food or a discarded bone to gnaw on. But I was fortunate. I won the Doggie Lotto.
However, I have to admit that I’m not the most handsome of dog breeds. That’s because I’m really no breed at all. I’m what they call a ‘Heinz 57 Dog.’ You know, fifty-seven varieties all combined into one tidy package. I think I’ve got a bit of Labrador retriever in me as I have nice floppy ears that got me adopted, so my parents tell me. They blow out like sails when I run, and Wendy at Mossbank Farm always said I like to do the Labrador Prance, whatever that is. I think it’s kind of like marching in place when I get excited. But how Wendy and Howard came into my life, well, that’s another story, too.
And I do have lots of bad hair days as I have stiff, wiry terrier hair that’s not always at its best behavior. But an oil of evening primrose capsule stuffed down my throat each day by my mama has certainly made me more petable. Of course, like all streets dogs, especially those of us from Mexico, I’m a yellowish gold color, I’d say about the color of freshly-harvested wheat. That’s because I suppose all million of us street dogs are related in one way or another. I also have four white paws and a white chest, which is soft as rabbit fur. They say my eyes are my best feature. They are large and brown and outlined in black. I’ve heard some say they are ‘wise-looking.’ I also have long eyelashes and even a scruffy-looking beard, which Granny says is always in need of a shave.
So as you can see, I wasn’t adopted for my classic good looks or my genetic background. My streak of good luck runs much deeper than that.
In fact, I’ll always remember the day I got lucky. It was a cold winter night in Mexico City (that means about 40 degrees Farenheit) but it seemed much colder to me, as I hadn’t had a thing to eat in several days. My chest hurt and I could barely breathe. I didn’t know I had pneumonia. All I knew was that I was hungry and miserable, and about at the end of my ‘doggie life.’ And remember, we dogs don’t have nine lives like cats do, so my luck had definitely run out.
Or so I thought.