He hated water and wouldn’t retrieve, but we loved Charlie just the same
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Version 0 of 1. I wish that just once I’d been able to talk to Charlie, him suddenly understanding English or me somehow understanding dog. I think we both would have enjoyed the conversation. I know I would have. Of course, even without speech, Charlie let you know how he felt. We met him behind a pet store in College Park, Md., where the local Labrador retriever rescue group was hosting an adoption event. His name was “Harley” then. He wasn’t a puppy. He was almost 2. But Labs are what you might call slow to mature. He had plenty of puppiness left in him. He was already crate trained, and he was, honestly, beautiful. His coat was dark and silky, like a jungle jaguar’s. We took him home. That was 13 years ago. His papers said he was from southern Virginia. Why had he been given up for adoption? We spent the rest of his life pondering that. A washed-out hunting dog, My Lovely Wife surmised. And it was true that Charlie — we changed his name immediately, he not striking us as a “Harley” — lacked certain Lab-like attributes. For starters, Charlie was not in love with water. He approached water with trepidation, whether it was lapping at a sandy ocean beach, yawning at the end of a wooden pier or coming out of a hose. And Charlie didn’t like bringing things back, a bad quality in a retriever. He’d chase after a ball, grab it on the first bounce, then drop the ball from his mouth before trotting away. I called him a Labrador leaver. Every dog builds its own legacy, authors stories that become family lore. Charlie ate the chocolate bars under the Christmas tree. Charlie ate a needle, which passed through him harmlessly. Charlie did not like mailmen. Charlie did not like mail. Charlie loved having his ears rubbed, which we enjoyed doing, and his butt scratched, which we didn’t. Charlie didn’t mind the trombone that one of our daughters played, but he did mind the clarinet the other one played, howling along in pained commentary. Charlie loved snow, which to him was something to frolic in and snack on. Whenever we walked in the snow he’d chomp big mouthfuls as he went along: canine snow cones, free pupsicles. We took Charlie with us wherever we went: on vacation to South Carolina, North Carolina, Canada. . . . He was a good traveler. He spent a whole year living with us in Oxford, England, where every morning I’d tie him up outside the news agent while I went inside to buy a newspaper. Charlie was a dog who loved people. Maybe he saw the inner beauty in each of us, but more likely it was because he was convinced that every human carried a sausage just for Charlie and that to get this sausage all he needed to do was walk up and rub his head against the stranger’s leg. As he got older, Charlie slowed down. He moved with difficulty from room to room, following his human pack. He always wanted to be close and before pushing back in a chair or rising from the couch we’d have to look for this black shadow. That’s been the hardest part: looking for him, then remembering he’s not there. We let Charlie go last week. He was 15. We’ve always been rule-following pet owners, contemptuous of those who don’t pick up their dog’s poop or who allow their pets to range off leash. When we were out and about with Charlie, he was always on a leash. Well, almost always. In December 2009, a record-setting blizzard blanketed Washington. We took Charlie down to the park. It was early in the morning and there was nearly a foot of fine powder. The park was empty, the road that ran alongside its edge closed. I leaned down and unclipped the leash from his collar and gave Charlie’s furry shoulders an encouraging skritch: It’s okay, boy. Charlie tore off through the snow like a rocket, his legs pumping, his mouth open, tongue out, eyes rolled back. There’s a way a dog gets when he’s possessed with joy. It’s a kind of giddy delirium. Charlie would shoot off, then reach some imaginary boundary and slingshot back, brushing my legs like a bull harrying a toreador. Back and forth he went, around and around, a four-legged Spirograph carving a path in the snow, as happy as it’s possible for a living thing to be. That’s how I want to remember Charlie: an inky black brush on a blank white page, writing his own story, making his own art, speaking his own language and sharing it with us. We’re all busy with the holidays, but don’t forget about The Washington Post Helping Hand fundraising campaign. Three very worthy local charities — Community of Hope, Sasha Bruce Youthwork and Homestretch — are working to end homelessness. To learn more about them, and to donate, visit posthelpinghand.com. Our goal is to raise $250,000 by Jan. 6. Our total so far is $36,445. Time to put the pedal to the metal. Twitter: @johnkelly For previous columns, visit washingtonpost.com/johnkelly. |