Lucky

The rumble of the Northern Line train was a familiar soundtrack to Catherine and Lewis's Tuesday evening commute. "I tell you, I want a dog," Catherine declared, as the train pulled into Nine Elms, her voice a blend of longing and determination as the doors closed and it rattled onwards towards Battersea tube station.

Lewis, ever the pragmatist, took a thoughtful bite of his apple, his gaze drifting towards the familiar advertisement plastered above the opposite seats – a heart-melting photograph of a Battersea Dogs Home resident. "They are cute," he murmured, almost to himself. Then, turning to Catherine, a crease of concern forming on his brow, he voiced his anxieties. "But Cath? Are you sure it's a good idea? Our rent is enormous as it is. Can we really afford the food, the vet bills… the whole shebang?"

Catherine's enthusiasm dimmed slightly, a flicker of her usual bright energy faltering. "Look, Lewis," she said, her tone tinged with a hint of frustration, "all I've ever had as a pet is a goddamn hamster, and she died quick enough." A wave of sympathy washed over Lewis. He remembered Catherine recounting the tale of Honey, the beloved hamster buried in a shoe box in her childhood garden. It was a small loss, but one that had clearly stayed with her.

The train hissed to a halt, the doors sliding open with a sigh. They ascended the escalators, the fluorescent lights casting long shadows, and emerged into the bustling station exit. And then, it was there.

Tied to a lamppost, right outside the station entrance, sat a puppy. Not just any puppy, but one with eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of the ages and long, soft, floppy ears that drooped with an endearing vulnerability. A simple, handwritten note was attached to its collar: "Can't look after her no more, please give her a good home." The tag on his collar just said "Lucky".

Lewis stopped dead in his tracks, a look of utter bewilderment spreading across his face. He exchanged a stunned glance with Catherine. "What are the chances?" he muttered, the echo of their earlier conversation hanging in the air.

Catherine, however, was already kneeling, her voice soft as she murmured to the trembling ball of fluff. "Oh, you poor thing." She looked up at Lewis, her eyes shining with an emotion he hadn't seen in a long time – pure, unadulterated joy. "We have to take her, Lewis. We just have to."

And so, Lucky entered their lives. A whirlwind of playful nips, puddles on the carpet, and an endless supply of adorable clumsiness. They soon discovered Lucky was a "Labradoodle," a charmingly scruffy cross between a Labrador's boundless energy and a poodle's surprising intelligence (and low-shedding coat, a bonus in their small rented flat). Their budget stretched, but they managed, buying a mountain of squeaky toys, a cosy bed, and what felt like an Olympic-sized supply of puppy pads.

Lucky had a peculiar quirk. When he encountered someone he didn't trust – a delivery person with shifty eyes, a loud and aggressive drunk – he wouldn't bark in the traditional sense. Instead, a strange, almost musical "harrumph" would escape his throat, a low, resonant sound that resembled the pluck of a harp string. It was oddly effective in making unwelcome visitors uneasy. Their regular walks took them through the vibrant streets of London, Lucky trotting happily alongside them, his tail a constant wagging metronome.

Every so often, Mr. Henderson, or Ed as they nervously referred to him when his looming presence wasn't making them sweat, made an appearance at their flat’s door. This landlord was a legend in his own right, mostly for the sheer absurdity of his "no pets" decree. It wasn't enough to simply ban furry companions; oh no, Ed had opinions. Strong ones. Apparently, his hatred for the musical "Cats" was intrinsically linked to his tenant agreement, and he'd once declared, with the unwavering conviction of a man who'd clearly misunderstood a meme, that "Dogs can't look up!" This nugget of wisdom, gleaned from some cinematic masterpiece he'd half-watched, became a household joke – albeit a whispered one.

So, whenever the dreaded shadow of Ed's infrequent but earth-shattering visits darkened their doorstep, Operation Laundry Basket commenced with military precision. Lucky, bless his oblivious heart, would be swiftly and unceremoniously stuffed into the wicker confines, buried under a mountain range of strategically draped towels. The command to "stay silent" was accompanied by Lewis always seeming to be on his guitar strumming the strings when Ed was around the property, just in case of a stray musical "harrumph" tune in the air; but Lucky seemed to love the laundry basket and obeyed Catherine’s command of “shhh darling" with fingers on lips, issued with the gravity of a life-or-death situation, a feat Lucky usually accomplished with the wide-eyed innocence of a canine Houdini. The reward for his temporary disappearance and vow of silence? Enough treats to make even Mr. Henderson crack a grudging smile – though thankfully, he never witnessed the post-visit celebration.

In the joyful chaos of raising Lucky, their dream of saving enough for a house deposit in their beloved corner of London seemed to drift further away. Every spare penny went towards kibble, vet check-ups, and the occasional irresistible doggy gadget.

One sunny Saturday, as they strolled through a bustling market, Catherine, distracted by a text message, held her phone loosely. In a flash, a scooter swerved onto the pavement, a masked figure snatched the phone from her hand, and sped off. Panic flared in Catherine's eyes, but before Lewis could react, Lucky sprang into action. With a surprising burst of speed, he broke free from Catherine's grip, the leash trailing behind him. In a chaotic tangle of legs and wheels, the leash wrapped tightly around the scooter's axle, sending the thief tumbling to the ground with a yelp of surprise and pain.

Lewis, adrenaline coursing through him, immediately called the police, his voice trembling slightly as he made a citizen's arrest. Lucky, tail wagging furiously, licked Catherine's hand as if to say, "Don't worry, I've got this."

That night, a sense of unease settled over their small flat. The incident had shaken them. Later, just as they were settling down for the evening, a loud knock echoed through the hallway. Before Lewis could reach the door, a man's foot was jammed in the frame, preventing it from closing. A gruff voice snarled, "You caused me a lot of trouble today!"

Fear gripped them, but before either could react, a blur of fur launched itself at the intruder from the laundry basket. Lucky, with a ferocity they hadn't witnessed before, leaped towards the man's face, his "harp bark" resonating with a deep, guttural growl. The man swiped at Lucky, but the determined Labradoodle-poodle mix dodged and lunged again, snapping harmlessly but effectively. Terrified by the unexpected canine assault, the intruder swore loudly and fled down the stairs.

Shaking, Catherine and Lewis knelt and enveloped Lucky in a tight hug, praising their brave protector. As they stood up, Lewis noticed something on their doorstep – a small, unassuming duffel bag. Hesitantly, he picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy. With trembling hands, they unzipped it. Their eyes widened in disbelief. Inside, neatly stacked, were bundles of cash. Forty thousand pounds. The exact amount they needed for the deposit on the little terraced house they had wistfully admired on their way back from Battersea the very day they had found Lucky.

The pieces clicked into place. The thief, in his panicked escape, must have dropped his ill-gotten gains. Lucky, in his own extraordinary way, had not only protected them but had also inadvertently provided them with the means to achieve their dream. As they looked at each other, then at the sleeping dog curled at their feet, a profound sense of gratitude washed over them. Lucky wasn't just a pet; he was family, a furry guardian angel who had arrived in their lives in the most unexpected and miraculous way. Their little London flat suddenly felt a lot smaller, filled not just with love, but with the promise of a brighter future, all thanks to a serendipitous encounter outside Battersea tube station.

Poem 

LUCKY LABBY

OMG, I mean WTF
It can’t be me; I have no luck!
Wish upon a star they say
Find a four-leaf clover on the 13th of May
Luck it seems, never shone on me
Until that memorable day in Battersea
The days now matter, it’s not the same
With Lucky by our side in the sun or rain
He’s our guardian angel, our wonder pup
It isn’t true, Ed , dogs can look up !