Lucky earned his name because my grandad found him in the exhaust pipe of his old Toyota truck before starting the engine. When I met Lucky, he was already into the later years of his life. His hips sagged from dysplasia and his eyes had become cloudy from cataracts. After so many years on the farm, he had become well acquainted with the surroundings; vision was merely an accessory. With age, his soft, smooth coat had left him, transforming into a bristly mix of black and silver. Although he was a mutt, his features closely resembled those of a black lab, and having never had a dog at home, I loved him in the way that an infant loves a dog, and he loved me in the way that a dog loves a person who overfeeds it. Unlike the other dogs, Lucky was free from the confines of chains and leashes. I assumed that with time, his desire to venture off in search of a female escaped him, for he never showed much curiosity as to what pleasures lay beyond the gates and fences. Or perhaps over the years he’d seen so many dogs come home battered and bruised from run-ins with other mutts in search of a companion that he’d grown wise enough to know that by squeezing under a fence or through the bars of a gate he would be entering a world void of safety and security. A world empty of friends and guaranteed meals. A world that did not value his survival. Lucky never barked. His quiet, gentle demeanor drew me to him. He was the only one I didn’t feel compelled to run from out of fear of being bitten. Lucky could usually be found lounging under the canopy of banana trees. The ground was cool and damp, as the expansive banana leaves posed an impenetrable barrier to the harsh rays of the hot Jamaican sun. Occasionally I would go and join him, running my hands through his rough black and gray fur. He rarely moved from this spot, and when he did it was with the same slow somber gait with which he tackled all physical activities.
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Rufus, his name meaning red haired in Latin, was big. My grandad found it fitting that he would bear this name as amongst his predominantly black coat were strong red and orange hues. An Anglo-Nubian goat, his breed differed from that of his peers. He had an intimidating presence. He was significantly larger than the rest of the herd and stood out with his defined, bulging muscles. Like most males, he was aggressive, and as a result, much of what I was able to observe about him was through holes in the fence or the slats of his pen door. He was kept separate to protect the females. His days were uneventful. He could either be found within the constraints of his pen or out grazing the fields. I was never allowed to pet or touch him, so to this day I’m not sure what drew me to him as a young child. Maybe I admired his dominance and imposing frame. Even as a child, I was conscious of his place in the hierarchy. Sitting on the back veranda, I would watch as other goats yielded their grazing spots to him in an attempt to avoid conflict. Other males would fight, but never Rufus. His intimidating frame was effective for conflict avoidance as the other bucks were smart enough to know brawling with him would be a losing proposition.
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Lucky was Rufus’s only equal. When the sun would sink and leech purple, orange, and red tones into the sky, Lucky without fail would come out from under his canopy of banana leaves, making his way towards the fields. Despite Lucky’s age and his lack of speed, my grandad still relied on him to herd the goats and sheep back into the barn for the night. While we had much younger and quicker dogs, they were apprehensive around Rufus, making them unsuitable for the job. Lucky would limp out into the field in search of his comrade. There was no chasing or barking; the two of them would find each other and start the migration across the pastures back towards the barn. The goats and sheep would follow, Lucky and Rufus, together their shepherd. Lucky could never stand up to Rufus’s size or strength, but they shared an unspoken reverence, like two old men who find common ground over a beer. Lucky and Rufus were more similar than they were different, both products of the same environment. But rather than beer, the fields of signal and Christmas grass allowed them to find their common ground; they were brothers facing the realities of a life and destiny over which they had little control. I guess it’s only fitting that Lucky passed shortly after Rufus was sent to slaughter.