Dad here; I have stated in the past that it was my wish that everyone could find their own personal Charlie, but I am now seeing the error of my ways. If life is like box of chocolates, life with Charlie is like a box of chocolates infused with raw tequila, habanero pepper and more than a pinch of gunpowder. The day starts when I try to get her to go outside, and she greets me with a look of such sweetly sublime imbecility, “why disturbest thou thine superior?”, then transforms into a sleek hair covered wrecking ball for the remainder of the day. One example:
Zach’s motorcycle was recently stolen from his apartment, so he now stashes the replacement in the greasy garage of the Casa, a tight but workable precaution. As we have an Eastern Seals ride coming up this weekend, I went out there last night to inspect the bikes, check the tires, batteries, etc.
Now, Charlie has developed an obsession with anything noisy and motorized; if I start the mower? There she is, bounding up onto the deck with absolutely no regard for my bare feet. The Subaru? Same reaction. But her true passion is reserved for motorcycles and even the sound of the key going into the ignition is enough to transform her into a maelstrom of mayhem, and the actual sound of the bike causes her already meager IQ to half and her adrenaline to double. Her voice transforms from a “normal” bark (if there is such a thing) to a CHARK!!, an unholy, earsplitting combination of plea and demand that cannot be ignored.
So here I am, alone at the Casa with no human reinforcements, and when I crank up Zach’s bike, I feel a whoomp!, 50# of black dog vaulting onto the saddle expecting to go for a ride. Although this might have been amusing at another time, Newton’s law dictates that an object in motion reads to remain in motion until acted upon by an outside source, in this case the outside source being MY motorcycle. Her exuberant momentum caused Zach’s bike to crash into mine, which then teetered over into the lawn mower, leaving me with a tangled mass of handlebars and brake cables and a floor awash with gasoline spilked from the carbs. And where was the orchestrator of this disaster? Out cavorting with the other inmates, as it obviously didn’t appear that a ride was immediately forthcoming.
So I struggle to separate and recoup the bikes, sonewhat succesfull until I try to lift Zach’s bike from it’s position of repose; halfway through the process, the gas on the floor causes my feet to fly out from under me and the motorcycle found itself back on the floor. Thankfully, there was no further damage to the bike, as my legs cushioned it’s impact; pinned in a pool of gas by a 400# Suzuki for even a moment is a moment too long.
All’s well that ends well and everything is now squared away and put back into what appears to be order at the Casa; the next time you wish that you had your own personal Charlie?
Be careful what you wish for.
And as it’s officialy Charlie Bravo day, it is your responsibility to to get out there and chark the freaking diem!