Free Orwell's Luck by Richard W. Jennings

his weakly vibrating nose.
    Safely home, I set up his cage on a LEGO table I'd placed by the windows. I lifted Orwell out of the box with both hands as the veterinarian had instructed, and set the rabbit carefully into the center of the cage on a carpet of fresh, aromatic pine shavings.
    Orwell sprawled on his stomach with his tiny legs trailing behind him like the tail of a kite. He made no impression in the pine litter. The poor little guy weighed next to nothing.
    Orwell was in as bad a shape as I've ever seen him, worse than the day I found him in the front yard, worse than the time he got carried off by the Irish setter. He was a limp and nearly lifeless rabbit now, a rabbit skin filled with loose and leftover parts, a beanbag toy and little more.
    How much luck did he have left? I wondered.
    "Can he walk yet?" My sister and her wily cat had followed me into my room.
    "I don't think so," I answered. "It's not supposed to happen that fast." Then, so I didn't attract bad luck by expressing too much wishful thinking, I added, "If it ever does."
    "Then why is he in a cage?" she inquired.
    "I'm not sure," I replied. "Maybe it's to protect him from your cat."
    "He won't hurt Orwell. He's just curious about anything new."
    It was true that the cat was always the first to inspect any box or shopping bag brought into the house. No sooner would you set it on the floor than he'd sniff it, walk around it, climb into it, sit on it, and generally claim it for his own until he eventually got bored and moved on.
    Now the inquisitive feline had his face up to Orwell's wire mesh door. He stared blankly at the quiet rabbit and swished his tail.
    "I don't know," I said. "It looks to me like he wants to eat him."
    "I don't think he could," my sister said. "They're almost the same size."
    Suddenly, in a single, skillful bound, my sister's cat leapt onto the top of Orwell's cage. He stretched out his full furry length, placed his head down on the wire, and studied the little rabbit from above.
    Orwell seemed unperturbed.
    As my sister and I continued to observe, the acrobatic cat rolled over on his side, rested his head against his forelegs and, as cats around the world are so adept at doing, promptly fell asleep.
    "He doesn't look very dangerous to me," my sister said.
    Soon the old dog came padding in, his belly barely clearing the carpet. Seeing the cat and the rabbit apparently enjoying an afternoon snooze, he decided to join them, collapsing like a deflated beach ball at the foot of the platform supporting Orwell's cage.
    "That's strange," I said. "I thought they were natural enemies."
    "People can change, you know," my sister said, an accidental insight that burst from her mouth like the burp that follows swallows of fizzy soda.
    "Well, Orwell," I said, "you sure have a knack for making friends. I guess we're going to have to extend the visiting hours a little tonight."

The wheel of fortune
    There is nothing unusual about the sight of FOR SALE signs in my neighborhood. People come and go for many reasons. So when the school bus dropped me off one chilly afternoon and a freshly planted FOR SALE sign beckoned from the house across the street, I barely even noticed, dismissing the commonplace placard with, "
Cela m'est egal
" ("It's all the same to me").
    But once I got inside, it was a different story.
    "Did you hear?" my father asked. "The what's-their-names, you know, the people who live across the street? They won the lottery yesterday! Can you believe it?"
    "I was always meaning to speak to her," my mother said. "But I never had the time."
    "Wait a minute!" I interrupted. "You mean the people who live directly across the street? They won the lottery?"
    "That's right," my mother said. "Isn't it amazing? I've never known anyone who won the lottery before."
    "You still don't," my father said. "You've never actually met them."
    "I've waved," my mother corrected him, "as I was backing out of the driveway. That counts."
    "Not for much," my