The Charlie Bravo Story

Let’s dance

It’s a rainy Charlie Bravo Day at the Casa del Whackos, but as it has been a long, dry spell, having some rain is a good thing. I’m wadded up with dad in the recliner, and the other inmates are sprawled out on the remaining furniture like they were dropped from the sky. The only signs of life are the occasional leg kick and “WHUFF!” of a dreaming Claire, or the raspy snores of Titus the Uncouth Boybarian.

Dad passed the last of his certification exams yesterday, so we did a little decompression ride on the Moto Guzzi in anticipation of the rain moving in today. As usual, we found ourselves back out in the river bottoms where I was unceremoniously abandoned; dad and I still patrol out there in the off chance that we might catch another dog dumper in the act, but thankfully that hasn’t been the case is quite some time.

People are always curious as to how much I remember of the spot on the side of the road where dad found my crate; I’m a dog, of course I remember. I remember the feelings of hopelessness, claustrophobia, loneliness, and despair. I remember the constant itching and scratching at myself as well as the interior of my prison, even the tearing of my gums at the hard edges of the hole I had managed to initiate in the brittle, unyielding plastic. I remember the only sound for hours being the sound of my own whining mocking me as they echoed back at me all sides except the one that mattered the most, the stainless steel door that ultimately held me captive. Yep, I remember it all.

But I choose not to dwell on it.

Because I also remember the motorcycles stopping. I remember the bag of Gravy Train. I remember the ride in Zach’s truck to what was to become my home. I remember the first face lick, one of a million face licks to follow. I remember learning to commandeer first the bed, then the bike, then anything I put my mind towards.

I remember it all, so why focus on the bad? It is said that those who don’t know their history are destined to repeat it, and I believe this to be true. But whether good or evil, where I’ve been does not define where I’m going; if anything, my past misfortunes serve only as a backdrop to highlight my future. Sunshine is never more beautiful than when it is filtered and focused by the very clouds that a negative dog would think only exist to obscure the very object that creates that beautiful ray, or even the rainbow.

Wait a minute, somebody’s at the door…

(Pandemonium ensues)

OK, I’m back; that was Zach purportedly bringing dad some axe handles to work on, although he just “happened” to have with him a copy of the latest ultrasound, the latest spud to be sprouting in the Winingar tater patch. Even though it’s raining, he and dad had to go out back and do a little manly celebratory wood chopping to blow off some excess testosterone. Men…

Anyway, I don’t mind it a bit when we revisit the old spot where we initially met, because to get there usually involves a ride on a motorcycle, and I’m all about the rides. The very remoteness of the area which made my crate so difficult to discover now gives me ample room to flounce, chark, shimmy, shake, thrash about, and generally make a complete and utter fool of myself.

It is said that King David danced this way when he saw the Ark coming up the road after being liberated from captivity, and if such behaviour is good enough for an Old Testament king, I reserve the right to engage in such behaviour myself.

After all, I AM the Queen!

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