A number of wonderful dogs graced our home throughout the years. Shelties, Golden Retrievers, and mutts of undetermined lineage all bore one thing in common: faithfulness. We did, however, attract some quirky little things.
Gypsy buried her treasures–like baby kittens with just a head and two paws poking out of the ground. Quincy spelled his favorite treats and went berserk every time we passed a McDonald’s. But this little ball of fur lounging beside me just eclipses them all.
Alma encouraged me to adopt this rescue puppy, and our first few days together didn’t begin with a good omen. This rascal without a pedigree left messes everywhere. He threw up for two weeks. He clearly tolerated me without an ounce of real devotion. But upon Alma’s death the entire landscape of our relationship changed. He stopped making messes for one thing. He became my shadow, whining when I closed the door to the bathroom without letting him in. Love became his over-arching quality.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s still quirky as all get out. He gets so excited to see me in the morning that he races like a whirling dervish around the living room squeaking his toys in a frenzy of delight until he collapses from exhaustion. He gazes at me mournfully when a little curly headed granddaughter loves him too much, practically begging me for a reprieve. He prefers any morsel from my plate over his Nutrish, which Rachael Ray so lovingly makes for him. I consider Charlie Alma’s last gift to me. It’s one of his best.