Dad here; I apologize for the lack of response for your overwhelming offering of condolences, but it's been a somewhat of a blur.  Since the beginning of Charlie's story, I have made it a point to read and acknowledge every comment with at least a "like", as I figure  that's the very least I can do to acknowledge the fact that each of you took time to comment. The problem I'm having now is that…

I don't have it in me to be witty or creative right now, so I'll cut to the chase: Max is gone. Earlier tonight, I thought it odd that he wasn't glued to my side as he usually is, so I began checking the cars to make sure he hadn't stowed away; no luck. After checking the house, I looked out the back door and saw a pile of brown fur out in the back…

A full moon casts a long shadow, that of a lone figure with an impressive set of ears, as he stealthily makes his way towards the mighty Rio Grande. His nombre is El Zurdo, The Lefty, a moniker not taken but earned in a cantina brawl along the dry Chihuahuan desert; the other participants in the fracas earned no such names in the encounter. They're all dead. El Zurdo is on a mission to transport…

Some days the words flow as effortlessly as quicksilver, other days it's like my thoughts are trudging through a pool of cold molasses, this is one of those latter days. Never fear, all is well at the Casa; how could it be otherwise on Charlie Bravo Day, right?, but sometimes the cares of life can squelch even the most joyous of occasions, so I'll leave you with this instead. If you feel that you have…

Yo, Charlee! What's up, Bultaco? I understand zees ees a special day for you! Well, Bull, when your earliest memory is of the inside of a filthy crate, any day spent free is a special day, but I take your point. So, how do you plan on zee celebrations? Well, I'll flounce, lick, chark, chowl, strut, take a long, quivering poop, kick grass joyously over my head, work on my book, take a nap, wait…

There's an old saying "I would rather sleep with a wet dog than a guilty conscience"; last night, dad got both. Mom decided that Max and I needed a spa day, so dad dutifully trudged to the shower to fulfill his destiny as beautician/masseuse/cosmetician. The time it takes a dog to dry is directly proportionate to the lateness of the hour, so, last night, the bed retained a slightly swamp-like atmosphere. Mom wisely relocated to…