Lucky and Maraca

A bedridden woman in my tight knit Jewish community had an emergency.  Maraca, her small grey and white mutt, needed minor but urgent surgery on her shoulder. “Could you take care of Maraca while she heals?” she asked. 

“Sure, I can take her to my place for a couple of weeks,” I said. 

Months before I had tried to gently persuade her to let me find a loving home for Maraca. “I only trust you. I won’t give my dog to a family I don’t know,” she responded.

I wasn’t the family I had in mind. 

I had my own dog, a rather handsome, sweet, large black retriever by the name of Lucky. I lived in an apartment, and I needed another dog like a hole in the head. Gosh darn it though, even with stiches in her shoulder, Maraca was such a happy dog. I had to laugh when I looked over at her in the middle of the night and she was sprawled out on Lucky’s doggie bed like she was at the Ritz. I began to wonder if I shouldn’t just keep her. What’s one more dog, right? 

Even though Maraca was firmly in her twilight years, she would sprint to the door like a rocket to join Lucky and me on our daily walks around the Pico/Robertson area of Los Angeles. You really want to get to know your community? Get a dog. Even the homeless gentleman on my corner became acquainted with us, yelling out to me “Hey, Maraca doesn’t have her cone on anymore!”  The now three of us would greet people on their way to daven shacharit. I had three rabbis on my block alone. 

I’d bake challah for various people we’d meet on our walking adventures. That was a sight, me juggling bags of warm challah and two dogs while ducking into the Coffee Bean. More than once I’ve spilled a freshly made Mocha Ice Blended — otherwise known as a chocolate shake —  down the front of my blouse. 

In the blink of an eye, two years had passed. Then it happened. 

Lucky became ill over Shabbat. By Monday a major organ was failing. He was gone by Tuesday. The word sadness doesn’t even begin to cover it.  I walked into the Coffee Bean the day after he died and sat down. A homeless man in the neighborhood came up to me asking, “Where is …?” Mid-sentence he stopped cold, seeing the pained look on my face. There was only one reason why Lucky wasn’t with me. 

Yes, I kissed the ground that I still had Maraca, who by the way, marched right up to Lucky and kissed him on the mouth right before he died. Considering their size variance, that was no mean feat. 

I suddenly realized how much she had loved him.  

You know how I know? Maraca died within a week of him. She had staved off her own mortality by shear will and her love of Lucky. Coincidence is not in the Jewish wheelhouse. A love story was right in front of me, and I didn’t see it. 

The next morning, I laid in bed and moaned out loud. Out of desperation, I grabbed my roommate’s dog because I just had to get out of the house and … walk. I exhaled the minute my feet hit the pavement.

How do I work through this, I wondered as I headed down Olympic Blvd. How do I value life while mourning the love of someone who is no longer with me? Is a dog a someone? Through my tears, I tried to focus on celebrating the life of both dogs, the sheer joy they brought me and my community.

Admittedly, I didn’t fully appreciate the 1,095 doggie walks a year (I counted) until it was too late. Rituals create connection, and I’m determined to appreciate those connections in real time from here on out.

Admittedly, I didn’t fully appreciate the 1,095 doggie walks a year (I counted) until it was too late. Rituals create connection, and I’m determined to appreciate those connections in real time from here on out.

I had taken both dogs as a mitzvah for other people when in fact, I was the one who had received the biggest mitzvah of all.

Christine Shira Sheaks is a film producer and currently finishing her memoir, “A Wandering Shiksa.”