What is Charlie?

As I begin to write these words it is 6:38pm on Sunday evening.  I just returned from a trip to Justin and Sofia’s, on the bike, to bring Charlie back home.  This is quite standard operating procedure.  With our car, our efficacy rate is 100%.  He hears our loud diesel engine approach, and prances to the car.  Sometimes, if the windows are down, there is no need to open the door or even to come to a complete stop. 

Charlie just jumps in.  He’s made more than one feel like a chump.

He’s not so fond of our motorcycle: a 2003, 250cc Honda XR.  Oh baby.  I’m fond of this bike, and Kate, being my pragmatic wife (that’s right, we’re married), has learned to appreciate the convenience of our bike.  For instance, on Friday she needed sweet condensed milk.  So in 3/4s of a jiffy I went to Monteverde Whole Foods (not affiliated in any way, shape, or form to the larger Whole Food Co) and back, equipping Kate for her to bake a damn good cheese cake.  Damn, damn, damn good!

But yeah, Charlie’s a pain in the ass when I’m on the bike.  Twice I’ve ridden home from the Institute, with Charlie’s leash in my left (or was it my right?  You can see why it’s not a good idea) hand, going painfully slow home.  And if you think it’s all done when you get home, you are mistaken.  For with Charlie at stake, peril lurks in every corner.  Ideally, you want to transfer him to the metal chain we have outside our front door, while still having the leash attached, as a strict security procedure.  A lot can go wrong if you think that simply “being” (what does that even mean?) home—or in home “range” will keep this mutt around.  He’s very likely to charge the forests, or visit Joe and Jean’s dogs, possibly eating whatever food he comes across; or perhaps he’ll go to Matt’s house, and most definitely eat his dog’s and/or cat’s food; or sometimes he’ll just run back to the Institute, no doubt annoyed that I interrupted his socializing routine.

We interrupt this paragraph to notify you that at exactly 6:45pm, Charles has walked in our door (more on this in a second).  “Who came home but the Charlie Bones?!”  I chant as I pour Kaia and Charles’ dog food into their respective bowls. 

Most other bike-based recovery expeditions simply entail Charlie running 10-15 feet behind me, as I mull along the 3-4kms in second gear.  Tonight, as I pulled into Justin and Sofia’s (no doubt, Charlie’s favorite go-to spot for Monteverde roaming), I see his silhouette walk away from me, towards the dog blankets that lay outside in the hallway of their house.  He knows the sound of my bike, and he definitely can smell me.  But the asshole decides to get more comfortable, tucking his head into the blankets.  He looks at me sheepishly.  Justin notes that “It’s like if he knew he did something wrong.”

(By the way, as I type these words, Charlie is on the couch, MOANING really loudly and in drawn-out fashion, no doubt annoyed at the fact that Kate has stood up to tend to her bread (the nerve!) and in doing so, has ceased to provide bodily contact of the kind deemed necessary by Charles for achieving optimal states of comfort and hedonistic saturation). 

So I sweet talk the jerk, feeling a bit humored by his antics.  There’s just no denying it: this little punk has swagger.  He’s got charm.  Persuasion. Elizabeth Taylor would do well to name a diamond collection after Charlie, captivating little fucking jewel that he is.  He’s not convinced. 

“¿Quiere comer?” I say excitedly (“Do you want to eat?”).  This seems to have struck a chord.  He approaches me, becoming a bit more convinced that I just may turn out to be another avenue for the fulfillment of his ego-drive.  I continue to rev his spirit up with stupid dog talk, but the spell wears off as I kick-start the bike.  He’s now run into Justin and Sofia’s bedroom, and is on another dog bed on the floor.  Now, I’m pulling him by the skin over his shoulder, ‘cause among his latest set of things chewed, we can list two Cesar Milan Illusion collars (the kinds that are even hard for us humans to manipulate, opposable digits and all).  And, to maximize his level of comfort, we took off his leather harness (still intact!) last evening, forgetting to put it on this morning before we opened the door of our house (in clear violation of Charlie’s Safety Guidelines vol. 1).  So he has nothing but the skin on his back for me to tug from.

Very lazily, and slowly, so damn slowly, he follows me, trailing behind. It’s dark, and I want to go home.  No, scratch that: I want to be home, cause even though I love riding motorcycles, I don’t want to be out at this moment cause it’s dark, cold, windy, and there’s real good chances for a real good downpour. 

So about 4 minutes into our collective migrant route, I say “to hell with this”, remembering a hunting episode I did not participate in, with people I don’t know, in a place I’ve never been to.  Someone on this trip, through dark forest and river ecosystems, asked the following, concerning a dog that was very far behind the group of humans, barking with what seemed to be serious concern (saying “Don’t leave me!”):

“Shouldn’t we wait for the dog?  I mean, will it make it back ok?”

The look on the askee’s face!  “The hell you talking about?” he said, without uttering a word.  “No, the dog comes back or not.” Of course.  What a beautiful and succinct way of stating all the possible scenarios that would indeed unfold. 

So tonight, I said (again) “to hell with this”, and quickly sped up (don’t worry you worrisome people, not really fast, just swift) the 6 gears of my bike, coming back home.

“Where’s Charlie?”  Kate asks.

“I left him by the Institute.  I figure if he comes, he comes.  Fuck it.  I don’t need to wait for the dog” (at the point it was I who felt righteous). 

I figure if he comes home, he comes home; if not, he doesn’t.  Turns out he did come home.  Slowly, with a 7 and ½ minute delay from my time of arrival.  But he’s here, on the couch.  

He’s an interesting…how to put it? Set of circumstances?  I don’t want to say “dog”, ‘cause this will too forcefully imbue my characterization of “him” with connotations of individuality.  But no, he’s much more than an individual.  He’s legend.  “Legend, Mr. Wayne”, as Raz Algul tells the pre-Batman Bruce, selling him on the vigilante crap (which, by the way, for as much as he denies it, Batman is nevertheless at his very root a vigilante).  Charlie is a state of recollection, of funny and sometimes, not-so-funny stories.