Charlie here: Winston Churchill described depression as the "black dog" and I think dad has been a bit bitten as of late. As of late, has been woefully derelict in his duties when it comes to the care and feeding of this page, so I have decided to take over for a bit until he decides to step up his game. One thing that drives us is a sense of mission. Whether it's a championing…

The Koca Kola Korporation recently came out with some directives for their employees, so I thought that I, Charlie Bravo, would try them on for size... To be less white: well, I AM black, with the exception of my white chest, paws, and the tip of my tail; and that color combo ain't changing To be less oppressive: can't help you here either, as I will continue to smother Dad at every opportunity To be…

Every trip seems to be divided in to two parts; the first half, usually three or four days in is all about the scenery. It's also all about clearing your head of the excess baggage that is clogging our heads. But people who haven't gone vacilando don't realize the pitfalls of that third day, as this is the day that self doubt, homesickness, and fear rears it's ugly head. This is also true if we're…

It's a cold, rainy day at the Casa, so the dogs and I exiled ourselves to the Cave Canum. Titus, Stubb and Claire piled up in the corner, while of course Charlie kept herself underfoot at all times. When she wants attention, she has this alarming habit of backing up against me and vigorously hunching her hinderparts upon my person. This is a sign that I must immediately stop whatever I'm doing and scratch her…

Yeah, yeah, yeah, we know she's a dog, what is "it"? I've been trying to define it for the last six years, with varying degrees of success. It's the message of the crate, that we all have them and the best way to escape ours is to help someone else escape theirs. The message that all of our contributions make a difference, no matter how insignificant they might appear at the time. That it's the…

Twas ragged and raw and the outriders saw She had been there for quite a long while In a crate by the road with no end in sight No houses for many a mile They stopped for a bit, then sped away in a cloud Of dust and exhaust so blue She resigned herself that this was her fate The Crate was all she knew Then she pricked up her ears at the sound of…

It's appropriate that I met my brother Marty Waldrop in Anthony Jett's motorcycle shop. I remember not being too sure what to think of this short, kind of obnoxious, doppleganger of myself, but his stories and pictures of his recent trip to Big Bend on his BMW 1200GS were enthralling. When I made my own first trip west, it was Marty's advice that I heeded then, and to which I adhere to this day: "Don't…