Charlie was different, maybe because he wasn’t a typical guy. We were pals from the start. I could be myself around him. I’d curl up on the sofa with a book, and he would be perfectly happy sprawled somewhere near, half-asleep with his head in the clouds.
My high school friends never really liked Charlie – they couldn’t understand my fondness for the guy. Part of it was that he wasn’t particularly good-looking, at least not in the Leo-di-Caprio sense (which was the only standard that mattered back then). Charlie has looks that grow on you. It just takes time to get used to him.
I guess it was also because they thought he was too affectionate – and not just with me, but with everyone else. It’s not that he jumped at any chance to kiss a girl. It was just that it was never in his nature to be shy – especially coupled with the fact that he trusted every person he met. If an ax murderer showed up dripping blood and gore, expect Charlie to invite the man in.
Charlie is pretty much the picture of a perfect guy – except for one thing. His problem was more psychological.
He was a dog, who believed – with every fiber of his being – that he was human. Nothing we did would convince him otherwise.
He was the same kind of dog they still use for Hush Puppy ads: a Basset Hound. God probably made the breed on a whim – during one of the more boring days of Creation. If a regular dog’s head were pulled one direction and his tail in the opposite direction, you’d end up with something vaguely resembling a hotdog with a nose and a lot of loose skin. That’s Charlie. His ears look like they were stretched, pounded and ironed until they were as flat and floppy as velvet.
Whenever I’m caught doing something forbidden, I’d spend half the time justifying my actions and the other half begging forgiveness. Not Charlie. During the "No" years (when Charlie lived under the assumption that his name was no) we’d catch him repeatedly stealing food from the table. We’d scream variations of "No, Charlie!" and "Bad Charlie, no!" He would look at us sorrowfully with those big brown eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he would climb down, turn his back and walk away, with backward glances that would beat a telenovela star any day. The result is a feeling of intense guilt, coupled with a sudden desire to cuddle the poor baby and give him a treat. Which, I suppose, was Charlie’s whole point.
Charlie’s relationship with my dad was utilitarian. My dad would take care of the bathing, the feeding and the disciplining. My parents run their business from home, so during the day, Charlie snuggles down at my Dad’s feet. When my Dad moves, he moves. At four o’clock, when I come in from school, Charlie zooms to the door, all thought of his babysitter forgotten. Until the next day.
My mother was Charlie’s sworn enemy. From my mother’s side, you can see her point, what with all the chewed up pillows, couches marked with paw prints and the smell of wet dog pervading the air. I personally wanted to hang Charlie by his ears when he dug through my underwear drawer and presented my panties to a visitor we had downstairs. Her habit of tucking me in at night came to abrupt halt at Charlie’s coming. He would station himself just inside the door and do his German Shepherd imitation, all bared teeth and ominous growling. They declared a truce eventually, mom because it was necessary, Charlie because he recognized who called the shots in the house.
Charlie, like any other hound, always followed his nose. We’d be walking on the park – sometimes I wonder who’s walking who – and then he’d take off like a bullet with me being dragged from behind like an out-of-control water skier. He’d trip every once in a while – he never really figured out that it was because he was stepping on his own ears. He was in touch with his feminine side. He’d skid to a stop whenever we passed by a flower bush. He’d plop down on his butt and proceed to delicately sniff every single flower in the vicinity.
When I was 16, Charlie got sick. He refused to eat, and only whined pitifully when we tried to feed him. I hugged him the night before Dad took him to the vet, and those big, sad dog-eyes looked at me so gratefully and lovingly.
The next day, Dad picked me up from school, and I kept asking him to take me to the vet. He said it was okay; he’d take me in a while. I guess he didn’t know what to say. When we got home, Dad sat me down, looked me in the eye, and told me that Charlie was dead.
I’m not a tomboy anymore. I’ve discovered miniskirts, high heels and the art of flirting. I’ve met a lot of guys, and found in them the greatest of friends. It’s funny though, the way none of them could ever compare to that stubborn little hound with the long floppy ears, curled up for the last time in a little grave in our backyard.
I‘m 19, and I still miss my Charlie.