The Charlie Bravo Story

Footprints in the cheese dip

Betsy Robb is not a good person. If you will remember, she’s the president of the Friends of the Little Rock Animal Village who originally tuned up and played dad like a Stradivarius. This particular song ended with the relocation of Marco Polo de la Horndog to the Casa del Whackos, and life has never been the same.

Then dad saw on her FB page that the Sonic now has hot pretzels; they’ll be good, she said. How could this dose of dough, salt, and cheese dip possibly have a negative effect on dad’s diet?

So last night, mom and dad piled in the old Subie to go look at life vests for the canoe; of course, Marco and I had to go, but mom decided(unwisely) to take Mia as well. Mia loves to ride, but unfortunately the motion of any car causes her yarkometer to dial up, and it’s never a question of if, just when.

When most folks want to see rednecks go fast and turn left, they watch Nascar; we go to the Sonic, so this is where we stop on the way home from Bass Pro. Car load of dogs, Sonic drive thru, Bass Pro, sounds like some sort of trailer park trifecta. Combine that with the fact that I feel the need to Chark my head off at every carhop that slouches past, Marco bouncing from lap to lap like a caffeinated chigger, and you cannot describe this in any way as a relaxing evening.

Dad spots the pretzel with cheese on the menu, and is immediately reminded of Betsy’s post. In addition to that, many drive thru items are decided based on their ease of being shared with we dogs, the true rulers of the Casa.

The prolonged preparation time more appropriate for a five star restaurant than a drive through gives Mia’s stomach plenty of time to attain trebuchet status, and she launches her projectile just as our dinner is being delivered. Mom may be unwise, but she is always prepared, and has a towel in reserve for such an attack. If course, dad’s thoughts on the matter run more towards “if you’re so sure she is going to do the Technicolor yawn, why bring her in the first place?”

So dad divides the pretzel, and begins to part our half with all the care of Jesus feeding the multitude with the loaves and fishes. Marco is in full prance mode in dad’s lap, demanding his share and mine as well, and dad is just about to enjoy his half of the pretzel when he makes a horrifying discovery:

Marco has trodden in the cheese dip, leaving a perfect Chihuahua hoof print.

To be totally honest, dad’s first instinct was to quickly smooth it over, pretend it didn’t happen, and eat it anyway, but believe it or not, even he has his limits.

Thanks, Betsy, and I mean it.

(Kind of)

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