One day I’ll write a novel on the delinquent penchant of a character known as Johnny Carpaccio. For today, I’ll recount a few recent events surrounding Charlie Garbanzo’s roaming strategies. Mud is here and has been for the better part of the preceding 20 or so days. It is here courtesy of the nearly straight 9 uninterrupted days of rain. This thus makes things thoroughly thicker. The dirt on the dogs’ coat more clingy; the paws on the red floor more soupy.
And the dogs need exercise. Charlie needs excessive amounts. So he romps. Light upon the Earth and the door to the day is unlocked, door knob grasped in counter-clockwise motion to send Charlie forth unto the world. He romps. He bounces kinetically, frantically releasing and simultaneously injecting energy into the immediate surroundings. He growls not quite intimidatingly too while he romps. EERRR as he bounces of your lower leg, Kaia not entirely amused.
This prophetic union of bounding dog and mud results in more chores for Kate and I. We wipe and dry them, and then sweep and mop what we weren’t quite able to wipe and dry. This while Charlie romps in the house. So two days ago on our morning stroll a brown Charlie darts across our horizon, from paddock through the milking barn, up past Joe and Jean’s house, into the forest immediately behind our house. Charlie is black and white. Not brown.
“Jerk. Now we’re going to have to bathe him.”
But as we were opening the door to the house, three of us, Kate, Kaia and I see a spotless Charlie come in North-South direction from the trail to our house. The little jerk had bathed in some river.
“Thanks man.”
He was spotless.
Act II
Justin watched Charlie while we were in Limon and Bocas del Toro. Eight nights or so.
One day, he gets home and finds the dogs lying around, Charlie chewing. He approaches and finds the chew toy to be the muzzle of an agouti. Charlie hunts while he romps sometimes.
Act III
Concluding our evening stroll yesterday, Charlie hits the forest right behind our house for one last killer run of the day. He’s barking like he does when he is hot on some trail. I whistle. This technique has a success rate of around 50%. This time, it doesn’t produce Charlie. He barks more, and I hear him charging after something. This something then hisses or growls back, and Charlie growls more and it sounds like a fight.
It’s darkish (6:05 pm) so I get my machete and a flash light. I walk into the dark forest. It’s dark in the forest when it’s dark. I hear him, or something to the North (towards Joe and Jean’s house). No more growls or barks, but something is moving fast. It sounds big. I don’t appreciate little Charlie’s tour at this hour. There are serious felines around, and we are intruding.
“Jerk.”
He ignores my calls. I stop being able to hear the movement, and notice that the crappy flashlight which illuminates crapo is distracting my ability to listen. So off it goes. Now I think I actually see more with the absence of contrast. Now I hear the romps to the North again. It’s going fast.
I haven’t really moved. I’m probably 30 feet in from the clearing of our house. I’m not really sure why I am there, but I guess there’s an unstated and not fully recognized acknowledgement that it’s dangerous for Charlie to be in there, and that I will try my best to defend him from any predator.
I still hear movement North, and the mind quiets a bit more to allow the fear that was held at bay by thoughts sink in and take charge of the ship. Shit. Now, very quickly something is coming at me from the West. I bang my machete on a trunk, producing sharp metallic clanks. Maybe this will scare it away. But it’s moving too fast. I go “SSSHSHSHSHHH, Heh Heh!” loud.
It moves fast. I swing twice in front of me as the little leaves almost tickle my face. It’s close enough to be moving the branch in front of me, but I can’t see it, and this has all happened in a second. I swing, I swing again. I hit a tree. By passes Charlie.
“Asshole! Come here.”
We go home, both of us intact.
These are the stories about the dog known as Charlie.
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