The Charlie Bravo Story

Servant for life

Sunday morning at the Casa del Whackos; a recent cold front has knocked the outside temps down a mere couple of degrees. But if you judge the weather by the actions of the inmates, you would think that the second ice age is rapidly approaching. Ajax is wadded up beside my head, Marco is “down there”, Titus and Charlie crammed up beside me so that I am in a state of claustrophobic semi – sarcophagus.

I realize that’s not even an actual condition, and improper English to boot, but I don’t care; I just like the way the words sounded when strung together.

Anyway, this is where both the dogs and I reveal our mutual stupidity. in an effort to extricate myself from the mass of snoring dog flesh, I ask the galvanizing question: “who wants to go outside?”. This is stupid on my part because this causes all interested parties to immediately pile on my chest, and it’s the height of stupidity on theirs as how am I supposed to get up to let them frolic when I have Chief Hardfoot doing a rain dance on my ribcage? Or more importantly, my bladder?

So I shuffle down the hall as the grandmaster of a dog parade, and open the front door only to be engulfed by a hairy stampede of previously docile dogs incited to wrath at the mere thought of the squirrels raiding the bird feeders out front. A momma mockingbird has built her nest in the basket of an old bicycle on the front porch, and she gives me a solid cussing for allowing her three babies to be disturbed; never mind the fact that I allow her to stay, rent free, regardless of how squatters seem to bring the neighborhood’s property values down.

Obviously, there is no peace to be found out front, so I head towards the back. But this means I must navigate past 83 year old Oba, who is all jacked up from the five pots of Charlie Bravo coffee she has inhaled and immediately begins poking bacon down my throat in a manner eerily similar to that of the mockingbird clan out front. I can feel my arteries starting to clot with congealed bacon grease, so I have to give her the stiff-arm to force my way to the back porch.

But then there are the hummingbirds. The entire onslaught that will arrive at the end of August has not yet shown their feathered little behinds, but there are already more than I can count. The incessant buzzing of the micro-kamikazis makes me feel about as welcome as a battleship at Pearl Harbor, and much more vulnerable, so I continue my exodus towards my sanctuary at the Casa North.

The garage.

Ah, solitude at last. But not for long, as Toby the neighborhood vagabond has discovered that I’m up and about. He must immediately scamper over to invade my personal space and place his moist little hands upon my person in a demand for immediate attention. This causes Ajax’s jealousy gene to alert him to the fact that another dog might possibly be getting a microsecond of attention, so he also materializes from thin air in a bid for the title of Most Insistent Dog on the Planet. However, this plan is immediately thwarted by the true holder of that title, She Who Must Be Obeyed:

Charlie Bravo.

Charlie loves having her tail scratched. To ensure that any and all are aware of this proclivity, she baaaddcks up to the victim and begins violently hunching her butt against them while looking expectantly over her shoulder. This can be a bit alarming to the a!initiated, or even to the experienced, especially if she catches you off guard with a coffee cup in hand. It’s even worse if she happens to catch me on the toilet, as she is fully aware that she has a captive audience in every sense of the term, and her hunching is vigorous to the point that it can and does upset the delicate balance that must be maintained.

So this is my lot in life, indentured servitude to a herd of slavering hounds…

…and squirrels and birds; can’t forget the birds.

It’s always a party at the Casa.

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