The National Rescue called.  There was a Bull Terrier in trouble.  I in turn called through the list of club members to find someone willing to accompany me on the drive to shelter.  Jim said he come along.  Then I called our vet to see if he could squeeze the dog in for an exam after I picked him up, he could. 

     The next morning we set off on a thirty-mile drive.  A drive in weather that’s best reserved for sitting at home in front of a fireplace.  When we left, we had light rain, a little while later it became freezing rain and sleet.  Ice began to coat everything. 

     I hadn’t been to this particular shelter and had no idea we’d be driving winding back roads to get there.  Poor Jim had never ridden with me before.  I could see Jim’s knuckles whiten as he gripped the dashboard and door through every twisting turn.  I kept chattering away with the hope of easing his mind.  I’m sure he wished he’d stayed home and wasn’t riding in an old van on icy roads with a magpie that wouldn’t shut up. 

     The sign for the shelter was about the size of a walnut so he really couldn’t blame me for missing it could he?  Twenty minutes past the sign, I decided to stop and ask someone if they knew where the heck this shelter was.  Jim remained in the van while I inquired at a small diner. 

     “Go back the way you came.  You’ll pass a junkyard on your left.  Don’t turn there.  Then you’ll see an A Treat beverage sign on an old red barn on your right.  Don’t turn there either.  You’ll pass three more roads and you’ll turn left at the fourth one.  Can’t miss it.  The shelter’s about two miles up that road.” 

     I bought a coffee for me, and one for Jim.  I figured we’d need it.  When I told Jim the directions, I thought he’d bust a gut.  We backtracked, saw the junkyard and the red barn which may have once been red but if it hadn’t had the A treat sign on it we never would have known.  Jim gleefully counted off roads and we turned at the fourth one.  That’s when we saw the miniscule sign. 

     The people at the shelter were very nice.  They’d been told to expect me and they had the dog ready when we walked in the door.  He was white, his face had several cuts and scratches, and we could see every rib and vertebrate.  This boy barely tipped the scales at thirty-five pounds a good twenty to thirty pounds underweight.  Yet he wagged his tail and greeted us with enthusiasm. 

     We drove him directly to my vet’s office.  My vet named him Lucky because I had the dog and he knew the good care he’d get.  After Lucky had a checkup, a couple of shots, and was sent home with me I knew we’d spoil him with food, he sure did love the cookies all the vets and vet techs gave him.  When I arrived at home with the dog, I already had a possible placement for him.  My vet had a friend who had recently lost his Bull Terrier to old age.  However, I wasn’t about to place him until he’d gained some weight.  Within a few weeks, Lucky had gained enough weight that I felt I could call my vet’s friend.  

     The friend arrived at my house twenty minutes after I’d called him.  Lucky fell for the man immediately.  Six years later, I still get reports on how wonderful Lucky is.  They never did change his name.