I am not really sure where the name “Charlie” came from. My criteria for dog’s names is quite simple: it should end in a long “EEE” for ease of calling and preferably not be a name of someone close, either in distance or relationally. That is, while naming my puppy after a brother in law (both of whom have names that end in a long “EEE”) may provide me with some twisted amusement, it probably won’t do much for long term family relations. Anyway, while pondering names on a meandering drive to a meeting, I struck upon “Charlie” and so it was.
On the drive home from picking home up, around the time he was chewing on my door (leaving teeth marks no less) I mentioned maybe he should have been “Marley” instead of Charlie. “Marley and Me” is a favourite of mine (both the book and the movie) though I wouldn’t recommend it for anyone with an older dog. (I may have been openly sobbing while sitting by a pool reading the book.) When I look at Charlie though, I’m beginning to think my instincts that first day may have been right.
Earlier this week I ran into a store to grab a snack for the afternoon at work. I came out and a family friend had opened the back door of my car to see the dog. As she was talking to him, she turned around and said you’ll never believe this, but the dog just ate my earring. Sure enough, she had the back. The earring: gone, in a lick of his tongue.
Meanwhile, he seems to have developed an aversion for my car. He’s moved from the front to the back, but the results are getting worse.
Now, I’m on poop patrol in case the earring should reappear. There’s nothing like wandering around the yard carrying a stick for investigation purposes. And I’m contemplating if it really is too late to change his name.
I’m trying not to wonder about the key that’s missing from the cup holder in my car.