The Charlie Bravo Story

Royalty is obnoxious

Who knew that royalty could be so obnoxious?

Sure, I guess the Tudor’s tended to be a bit boisterous, what with all the beheading and other anti-social activity going on, but the royals I had become accustomed seem to be a bit more boring. Their activities seem to swing to those of a more mundane nature, such as wearing hats, standing around looking either bored or constipated, and riding around in carts waving at the peasants lining the cobblestones.

Which brings up an interesting bit of trivia concerning the queen, which I will ask your participation in demonstrating:

Raise your right hand.

I’m serious, some of you aren’t participating; if you won’t cooperate by raising your hand, how do you think you’re going to handle wearing a mask?

OK, that’s better. Now, holding your arm mid-high and with your palm toward your face, now rotate only your wrist; everybody with me? That’s called “the Queen’s Wave.

Now, the trivia question: why will you never see the Queen of England waving with that hand?

Answer: because it’s YOUR hand; duh!

But I can’t spend too many brain cells pondering on such matters, as I have my own particular high-falutin’ queen to deal with; her Royal Highness, Charlemagne Bravissimo. I have a buddy who had followed the blog for a long time, but had never actually met Charlie. When he did finally make her acquaintance, it was only a short time before he said, “I used to envy you, now I just pity you”.

Basically, Charlie is a diva of the highest order, an unholy combination of a litter of Kardashians, Aretha Franklin and Bloody Mary; it’s definitely all about her. If I stop the motorcycle to speak with someone for any reason, the conversation only lasts exactly as long as she sees fit. Then the “CHARK!” (a Charlie bark, which must be heard to be truly feared) begins to hit the fan until I fire up the bike, once more affirming my subservient position as aught but a humble peon in the service of Her Majesty.

Even total strangers can’t help but notice her dominating role. We stopped at Cycle Gear, a motorcycle shop, yesterday to pick up some chain lube (lube is your friend), and of course, Charlie had to make her usual grand entrance. Then, eventually the attention shifts away from her; and this will NOT do, so she announces opinion on the matter. To the uninitiated, a CHARK can be viewed as an aggressive sound, but it’s merely one of the many weapons in her arsenal to express the concept of “yeah, yeah, yeah, how’s about shifting the attention back to me now?” A lady was shopping with her for husband’s Christmas present, had never laid eyes on The Charles before, but was immediately prompted to say “she is SUCH a diva!”.

But the main problem is that age is not causing her to chill out in the least; she is actually becoming exponentially more obstinate with the passage of time. I sometimes feel like a once solid rock that is being reduced to shifty sand by the relentless pounding of the sea. In spite of what activity that I might be currently involved in, the benevolent dictatoress always seems to find the means to get her way.

But then I remember the awful truth; time don’t wait. A dog’s life is a fraction of ours, and this is actually a good thing. As brutally painful as it will be to someday lose her, it will be much better than her losing me; how do you explain to such a dog that Dad’s never coming home? And truthfully, I’m not sure that anyone else could handle her, as she’s not a dog fit for high-society. Her place is on a motorcycle or in a car, any method of conveyance that’s taking her far away and towards the wide open spaces, far away from the stumbling madness that we humans sometimes call “life”.

It is my wish that you each find your own personal Charlie; in the meantime, I’ll continue to share mine with you.

We be of one blood, ye and I.

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