by Pat Becker
What people are saying about
Lucky Leo…
‘Lucky Leo is a tenacious dog who survives adversity to pursue his hunting talent. The author, Pat Becker, has created a canine hero for this lively tale that will appeal to both young adults and dog lovers.’
— Kent F. Frates, award-winning Oklahoma author
‘Becker skillfully weaves an argument for more responsible dog ownership with the intriguing world of sporting dogs. A meaningful and at the same time entertaining book for animal lovers of all ages.’
— Darl DeVault, Distinctly Oklahoma Magazine
Lucky Leo
Copyright © 2017 by Pat Becker
Story by Pat Becker
Cover art and illustrations by Sherry Brown-Judy
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
The author of this book will always try to accommodate a book reading, speaking to a group, or appearing for a book signing or an interview. For more information or to book an event, contact Pat Becker at:
[email protected]
or by phone at: (405) 627-9272
For more information about the writing of this book, the background of the author or to order autographed copies online:
www.patbeckerbooks.com
Publishing & printing
by Total Publishing and Media (Tulsa, Oklahoma)
This edition printed in 2017.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ISBN (HC): 978-1-63302-064-1
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-63302-065-8
Dedication…
To the responsible, caring owners of game dogs: Would that all sporting dogs be so lucky.
Contents
Chapter 1:Abandoned
Chapter 2:A Hungry Pilgrim
Chapter 3:Fading Hope
Chapter 4:Change of Fortune
Chapter 5:Pride and Courage
C H A P T E R
1
Abandoned
A FINAL BURST OF COLORS DANCED across the sky, splashing the atmosphere with brilliant shades of coral, pink, and blue green—a spectacular gift from the sun as it began its descent to the horizon.
It was on this kind of evening that a day of successful quail hunting left two middle-aged men contented and ready for a good dinner at Bob’s Steakhouse—their favorite for many years. The two hunters checked their shotguns, put them in their cases, and unloaded the quail from their vests.
“Great day!” one of the men said.
“Yep!” said the other. “It don’t get much better than this.”
The two friends started loading the bird dogs into their kennels inside the custom-built trailer. “I think we’re missing one, Frank,” the tall, lanky man said as he counted heads and started looking around.
“I’ll bet I know who,” Frank replied. “That shorthair is the orneriest dog I’ve ever seen.”
Phil shook his head. “He may be, but he’s a heck of a big ranging dog—and he sure pointed his share of coveys today.”
“Yeah, but he’s just so darned undisciplined!” said Frank, clearly agitated. “About the time I think he’s hitting his stride, he does something stupid—like chomping a bird right after he’s fetched five of ’em straight back to me and dropped ’em in my hand. Or staying with us for miles, then just running the other way as fast as he can with me blowing the bean outta my whistle. That ornery sucker can act fairly distant one day, and the next day he’s wanting to be a lapdog.”
Frank paused briefly and looked into the distance before continuing. “He gets along pretty well with the other pointers—till one of ’em looks at him the wrong way. Then he wants to fight! I’ll have to say he’s an athletic son of a gun. I swear he can jump a six-foot, chain-link fence that other dogs would find hard to climb.”
The hunter shook his head and turned back to his friend. “He’s got the stride of a horse and the stamina of a cougar. He’s got as good a nose as any bird dog I’ve ever seen, except if he decides one day that he isn’t sure that’s where he wants to be. Then he’s quit on ya! I’m telling ya, Phil, I’m not sure that he’s worth the trouble.”
“Well, we’re pretty much through for the day,” Phil said. “We gonna wait for him, or what?” The older man was feeling tired and sore from the all-day hike they had taken. His feet were ready for a rest, and he could almost taste the steak at Bob’s—and the cold beer. It was “Miller Time,” and he was geared up for some major relaxing.
“You know what?” Phil said answering his own question. “I ain’t waiting! No, sir—I ain’t! I’ve put up with his go-to-heck attitude for the last time. We’re outta here!” The truck and trailer lunged forward, and pulled through the gate of the pasture and onto the highway.
Ten minutes later a large German Shorthaired Pointer ran from an adjacent pasture and down the sandy road to the spot where the Suburban had been parked. He was covered in burrs and breathing hard, all the while clinging to the quail held in his mouth.
He dropped the bird, and looked around bewildered and confused. It was almost dark now, and the sound of howling coyotes startled him. He couldn’t understand what had happened. He sniffed the ground for clues. He ran to the road, then back to the place where his owner and the other dogs had been. He lifted his nose but could find no familiar scent on the night air. He combed the immediate area again and again.
The quail, which had eluded his search when it fell earlier in the day, had taken all his persistence to find. Now it lay on the ground, forgotten.
His heart sank. This was his fourth season—not a lengthy career. He had no idea how to handle this kind of situation. He walked to the side of the sandy road and lay down to wait for his owner’s return.
Thin rays of light from the morning sun broke through the trees surrounding the area where the big dog lay sleeping. A pair of meadowlarks flushed from a nearby plumb thicket, and the pointer jumped to his feet. Disoriented, he stood and watched as the birds landed a few yards away. The night had been cold. His sleep had been restless, and his body was stiff and sore.
His empty stomach rumbled as he recalled yesterday evening’s events. The fact that he had been abandoned had not occurred to him. He stretched and sat down on the now so-familiar spot and again waited for his owner. Surely the man would be pleased to see the retrieved bird and would reward him with an ample amount of food.
By noon his hunger was intense. By sunset he was beginning to feel weak. The quail became his first meal in many hours.
C H A P T E R
2
A Hungry Pilgrim
THE NEXT MORNING, the young pointer decided to try to find his way home. He still could not understand the consequences of his predicament, which made him feel uncertain and fearful.
He walked for days, fortunate to run down an occasional rat or squirrel and to happen upon a pond of water. He avoided the highways and vehicle-crowded streets—a lesson he had learned when he barely escaped death from speeding cars on more than one occasion.
Three weeks passed, and he grew bone thin. His coat was grimy and his gait slow, yet his instincts pushed him on.
As he passed through a small town one night, he spotted a bowl of dry dog food on a porch at the back of a church. He guzzled the kibble and lay down, falling asleep immediately.
Early the next morning he awoke with a start when the door opened suddenly. A lady with a broom in her hand began briskly sweeping the previous day’s dust from the kitchen, off the porch, and down the steps. She failed to notice the sleeping pointer.
The poor dog was so frightened that he fell off the porch, landing in a heap on the bottom step. The startled woman jumped back into the kitchen. The dog sat dazed, too weak to run. The woman cautiously peered around the half-
opened door and stared at the sad, bedraggled animal.
Her heart ached for the pitiful creature, and she knew she had to try to help him. “Oh, you poor thing!” she said. “You just wait here one minute, OK?”
She turned to go back into the kitchen. “Now don’t go away. I’ll be right back.”
As confused and wary as the big dog was, he saw kindness in the woman’s eyes, and her gentle manner was comforting to him. The door opened again, and the aroma of warm food filled his nostrils. A bowl was sat in front of him, and he eagerly gobbled its contents.
A man appeared beside the woman and looked down at the stray dog. “What’s going on, Sara?”
“A poor hungry pilgrim, Father,” she responded. “Will you give him a special blessing?” The woman smiled up at the tall priest.
“Sara, you could convert the devil,” the man said with a laugh. “I say a prayer of thanks every day that you are on our side. Only one meal, then he’s on his way. This parish can’t afford to feed every lost animal who finds his way to our back door.”
The woman lowered her head shyly. “I’m afraid the word is out, sir, this is the fifth sad creature I’ve fed this month. I’ve prayed to Saint Francis so many times.”
“That explains it then,” the priest said. “He’s made you his emissary.” The kind priest put his hand on the chubby woman’s shoulder. “He’s a sad case, that’s true. However, my dear Mrs. O’Conner, the rule still stands—one meal!” The priest turned to go.
Whether due to the dog’s poor condition or the rapid consumption of the warm meal, his stomach began to churn. He gagged, heaved, and threw up his undigested breakfast, the putrid substance spilling onto the porch.
“Oh, my!” The priest put his hand to his mouth and ran back inside the door.
“Why you poor unhappy creature,” Sara said softly. “You’re ill.”
The dog staggered away from the porch and lay down on his side.
“DOCTOR METZ, PLEASE,” Sara said after dialing a local veterinarian. “It’s Sara O’Conner from the church.”
Amy, the pretty brunette receptionist, handed the phone to the veterinarian as he passed her desk. “I really don’t know, Sara,” the man said as he spoke into the receiver. “I’ll have to see him. Bring him in about nine o’clock…Right…We’ll see you then. Give my best to Father Kelly. Good-bye.”
The veterinarian returned the phone to the young receptionist. “She’s bringing in another stray,” he said. “I’ll check him out, but I’m not keeping and feeding another one.”
“But, Dr. Metz…” the girl pleaded.
“Not one more!” scolded the disgruntled vet.
The dog was brought in, and true to his word Dr. Metz examined him thoroughly. “Well, he’s malnourished and wormy,” he advised Sara, “but he’ll live. From all appearances, he’s a well-bred German Shorthaired Pointer. Probably got lost…or abandoned while hunting.”
“You mean left to die alone in an unfamiliar place?” Sara had tears in her eyes, “Who would do such a thing—and why?”
“Truth is, it happens all the time,” the veterinarian said. “Most bird hunters take proper care of their dogs, but a dog who’s gun shy, or chronically ill, or too old to hunt, isn’t much use to some of the hard-hearted guys who couldn’t care less. It’s just one of those facts of life, Sara. Anyway, you take him back to the church and feed him well. You’ll have a healthy, very grateful pet.”
“You know the Father won’t let me keep him,” the little old lady said as she flashed her winning smile. “Can I leave him here until I find him a proper home?”
“Oh, no—absolutely not!” the young vet said. “I’m going broke from all the free room and board I give to the lost animals who manage to get dumped at the church.”
“I know,” Sara said dropping her head. “I understand what a burden it must be for you, but God has sent His creatures to us for help. How can we refuse Him?”
“To you, Sara!” the vet corrected. “God has sent them to you. Not to me—because God knows that I am a mere mortal who doesn’t have the time or the patience or the room for such insanity.”
“Please, Dr. Metz,” the woman begged. “This will be the last one. Look at the poor thing. You can see that he was once a proud hunting dog. And now he is broken and so sad. It isn’t fair.” Tears unashamedly rolled down her cheeks.
“There’s a lot that’s unfair in this world!” the vet exploded. “It isn’t fair that I’m the only veterinarian in town whom you harass this way.” The exasperated look on his face told Sara that he had indeed come to the end of his rope.
“Very well, I understand,” she said. “God will bless you for your past kindness to all of the other helpless animals for whom you have cared. Good day, Dr. Metz.”
Sara snapped an old lead to the dog’s weathered hunting collar and helped him off the examination table. As the old lady and the dog reached the door, Dr. Metz hollered, “Two days! That’s it! Two days then he goes to the shelter.”
“Oh, praise the Lord!” Sara said excitedly. “God will surely bless you Charles Metz.”
“I’m grateful for His blessing, Sara, but I’d be more grateful if He would find this dog a home.”
Sara tried all of the usual sources that day, but to no avail. All of the rescue clubs were overcrowded, and the individuals whom she had prevailed upon in the past hadn’t returned her calls. Father Kelly told her it was understandable, and warned her against being so “pushy.”
At the end of the second day, Dr. Metz called to say that he was sending the dog to the shelter. Sara prayed all night long to Saint Francis to intervene in this matter.
C H A P T E R
3
Fading Hope
THE BIG POINTER STRETCHED in the large crate and ate the ration of food given him by one of the clinic’s attendants. Amy brought him a small chew bone, as she had before, and rubbed his coat with a rubber mitt. “You like that, don’t you, boy,” she said. “We’ve got to get you shiny so somebody will see how handsome you are and want to adopt you.”
“I’m glad you’re here so early, Amy,” Dr. Metz said handing her the signed vaccination papers. “I need you to take that dog to the shelter today. I called them and made all of the necessary arrangements.”
The young woman stared at him. “But…I thought…”
“You heard me tell Sara that I would give him two days. Well it’s been two days.”
“I know, but I didn’t think that you meant it,” Amy said rubbing the grooming glove between her hands.”
Dr. Metz glared at her. “Take him and go—now!”
The young girl loaded the pointer into the back seat of her car and reached for her phone to call her best friend, La Donna. “You have to come with me, I can’t do this by myself. I feel so terrible.” Amy turned off her cell phone and let it fall to her lap as she leaned her head on the steering wheel of her car.
La Donna arrived a short time later and comforted her. “Maybe you could just refuse to do it,” she offered. “You know, go on strike or something.”
“Not likely!” Amy sobbed. “I need my job.” The pointer leaned over the front seat and licked her cheek.
“He is a pretty dog,” La Donna said leaning back to pet him, “and he seems so friendly. Oh, by the way, I called Jarrod. I thought that he might have some ideas.”
A man’s voice from outside the car startled them as he leaned against the car door. “I might know of somebody,” the young man said. “Is this the dog?”
He reached through the window and stroked the dog’s ears. The pointer cocked his head and came closer. He looked deep into the man’s eyes, whined, and gently licked his outstretched hand.
“Jarrod!” Amy said dabbing at her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Who’s the person you thought of?” La Donna asked Jarrod as she opened the car door for him.
Jarrod climbed into the back seat with the dog. “Man! You know what—this is a cool dog!”
The young man flashed a wide smile, revealing deep dimples on his cheeks that added to his good looks. His gray eyes sparkled with animation. His physical features hinted at his Native American heritage.
“Then why don’t you take him?” Amy asked.
Jarrod looked thoughtfully at the stray animal and exchanged glances with La Donna. “Nah, we can’t have pets in the duplex.”
“Maybe your mom would want him,” Amy persisted.
Jarrod raised an eyebrow and laughed. “Yeah, right! I don’t think he and Mom’s dog would get along. But this man I work for might be interested.”
“Does he like hunting dogs?” Amy asked. “Dr. Metz thinks that this dog’s a pretty well-bred bird dog. So he’ll probably need a big place to run. I really like this dog, Jarrod. I want to find him a good home.”
Amy was starting to tear up again.
“Well, if Jim Williams won’t take him,” Jarrod said, “I’ll bet that he’ll have some friends who might. This could take some time.” The big dog relaxed against Jarrod’s shoulder.
“No, we don’t have time,” Amy moaned. “Dr. Metz told me to take him to the shelter right now. If we can’t find somebody to take him, I’ll have to drop him off and they’ll put him to sleep. When I called the shelter they said that hardly anybody ever adopts hunting dogs. He said that I should try to find someone to take him because his chances are slim to none. That’s exactly the way he put it—‘slim to none.’” Amy put her face in her hands.
“OK,” Jarrod said, “Mike told me last night that he and Jim were going to Farmer’s Grain to get some plants this morning. Let’s go see if we can catch ’em. It’s over on Third Street, I think. Drive over that way, and I’ll show you.”
C H A P T E R
4
Change of Fortune
JARROD DIRECTED AMY to the nursery and grain store. As they pulled into the parking area at the front of the building, he spotted his best friend, Mike.
Mike was attending college and planning a career in landscape design. He spent most of his summer vacations at Jim’s farm designing and planting gardens surrounding the house. He built small ponds and rock garden spots, laid concrete pavers, and placed cement benches, fountains and statuary around the yard. There were various ornamental trees, exotic bushes, and vivid-colored flowers. Jim’s wife loved the additions.
