The Charlie Bravo Story

I told Dad my name today

I told Dad my name today.
Wait a minute. We haven’t even been properly introduced. I’m from North Little Rock; I was dumped out on the side of the road, but to tell the truth, I really didn’t care. Being left on my own is better than being chained up and ignored in the back corner of a hood rat’s yard. I’m still not sure what the problem was; could it have been my bum leg that made them tire of me? I guess their reasoning doesn’t really matter, as the result was the same: days of heat and nights filled with mosquitos.
And both filled with soul crushing boredom.
So when it came time to give me the boot, I saw my desertion as an opportunity, not a disaster. I didn’t have too long before this guy shaped like a fire plug came huffing up on a bicycle. I was extremely wary at first, but then he did the most unexpected thing; he plopped his big fanny right down on the ground and acted like I wasn’t even there.
This would not do; I cannot STAND to be ignored. Before I knew it, I was gnawing on his arm like we had been buddies for years, I began to throw out “the vibe”, and waddaya know, it worked. I heard him call somebody he addressed as “Mom” and ask her to bring the CRV down to the river. It looked like I soon wouldn’t have anything to worry about, as this cat was obviously a pushover.
So, I soon found myself at the Casa del Whackos. Matted hair dragging the ground, a gimpy leg, and an entire maddening battalion of fleas residing on my person, I was quite the train wreck. Multiple trips to the vet and a new hairstyle later, I am a different dog, and a significantly lighter one as well. Not only did I lose my furry coat, I also seem to have misplaced my brovaries; all that’s back there now is a sad and empty sack. I won’t lie, it’s a strange feeling trotting around a little more free and easy, but what’s done is done and there is no benefit in crying over spilled milk. I guess It’s my own fault for not keeping a better track of them.
But all things considered, things have taken a significant turn for the better. I’m now seventeen and a half pounds of heartworm negative toxic masculinity. I’m rocking a new frowzy-headed ‘do, and the other inmates at the Casa have taken me into their ranks. The jury is still out on the whole gimpy leg thing, but as long as Dad keeps lifting me up on the bed, why do I need to jump? As far as my breed, it’s looking like I’m some sort of schnoodle.
But you wanna hear the strange part? Shortly before Dad found me, he had put in an application for a dog at the local animal shelter. Although we have been at maximum capacity for some time, there needed to be a scruffy-faced terrier in the mix as homage to the memories of Max and Ajax. But he was more than a little pissed off when he was not just passed over, but others were encouraged to apply; the reasoning was that the Casa should not get any more “cute” dogs.
“Cute” dogs? Who would describe Marco the Recovering Meth Head as “cute”? Cute has never been a factor whatsoever; it’s all about what needs are placed in our path; service every need as it arises and you will find your ministry. But all things work together for the good, and if the adoption had proceeded as planned, there wouldn’t have been room at the Casa when I came along. So take THAT, “cute” dog; we all end up where we’re supposed to be.
Oh, I almost forgot about the whole name thing. He has been calling me MacDuff, but that is my surname. My first name is Woodrow, as in Woodrow F. MacDuff…
Hey, Woodrow?
What’s up, Charles?
This is the part where you say “we be of one blood, ye and I”
Got it, you sexy black diva…
Easy now, Woody; you couldn’t handle this lovin’…

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