 |
| Charlie Boy |
Apparently Charlie was what society chicks call a Golden doodle. My Lady loved his “soft white fur” apparently, and pet him way
too much. I got kinda sick of watching it to be honest.
I called him Charlie the Doodle Head. He was big and fluffy with
long hair that covered his eyes and just looked plain dippy.
Granted this boy was still a teenager, but good god almighty
he wasn’t altogether there upstairs. No matter how many times my Lady told him
NO and Get Down he just looked at her with his tongue hanging out. He did
EXACTLY what he wanted at all times. He didn’t understand anything – nothing.
 |
| Charlie on my bed |
Bedtime was the worst. More than ten times she tried to get
him off the bed. “No Charlie, No Charlie, DOWN, SIT, STAY…” He just completely ignored her and got right
back up. He actually had the nerve to look at me and say “Um, I think your Lady
isn’t very bright.”
“Dude.” I said with as much patience as I could. He was in
my bed now, rolling around and getting his white hair all over my blanky. Yes, I have a blanky, deal with it. And no, I don't like other pups fur on my blanky. “Get off the bed. You sleep on the floor.”
“No,” he said shaking his head. “I don’t. I sleep on the
bed.”
My Lady tried in earnest for the next fifteen minutes and
finally just gave up. “Sorry, Hamish.”
“See?” He said, panting, his tongue hanging out. “I told you,
I sleep on the bed.”
“Shut up, don’t touch me, and go to sleep.” I growled to let
him know I meant business.
“Dude.” He said. “Chill.” Then he flexed his legs out like
he was a ballerina or something. Damn designer dogs.
I stuck my head under the pillow and tried to forget he was
there.
Charlie was the most paranoid pup I had ever met. I’m
talking seriously psychotic. He was convinced there were bombs hiding in
anything metal, or in the closet or in the front door, or in the washing
machine. He was so scared something was going to get him my Lady had to hold
his food bowl up for him to eat. He sucked it down so fast he choked most of the
time. And the bowl had to be plastic. The metal ones freaked him out.
If someone opened a door, or hit something metal, or moved a
shoe near him, he dove on the ground with his legs spread out like he was
trying to run for cover.
My lady had to put a leash on him to get him to go anywhere
in the house. Thank god she gave up on the idea of taking him for a walk. I
think poor Charlie boy would have had a heart attack.
He had absolutely zero concept of personal space and thought
nothing of climbing all over everyone or anything. And then he would stare off
into space and growl at something only he could see. My Lady was convinced
there were ghosts in the house until she realized it was the closet door he was
growling at.
I tried to ask him about life in Crazyville, but he just
looked at me like I was the one who was nuts.
“What makes you so sure there
aren’t any bombs in there?”
Um. Ok. “Well, son.” This was going to be fun. But he looked
at me so terrified I just didn’t have the heart to scare him worse. Poor thing
was certifiable as it was. “Charlie. There are no bombs in this house.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Charlie, I live here. Don’t you think I would know
if there was a bomb planted in the water bowl? Or in the washing machine? Or if
one of the doors that I walk through all the time was rigged?”
Roxy even tried to help. “Charlie. You can smell a bomb.
You’re a dog, remember? Do you smell
a bomb?”
We gave up. There was just no hope for poor Charlie. What
possibly could have happened to that pup in only one year of life to make him
so psycho paranoid?
Roxy shook her head. “He wouldn’t have lasted two minutes
where I grew up.” You could tell from
the sadness in Roxy’s eyes that she had had a really tough life. I guess it
explained why she was so attached to her Lady.
Roxy’s lady came that night, so she was so ecstatic at the
site of her that neither one of them could stop crying. Hell, my Lady had tears
in her eyes, too. Her lady finally took her to her car and left.
I went over and sat next to my lady, feeling she could use a
little Hamish time.
Me too, I moaned and sighed happily, pushing my head into
her arm, appreciating her kisses. Me too.
