That Strange Time We First Met Sir Charles

The first time we saw Charley, he was splayed out flat on the floor of the Humane Society office in Dillon, Montana and dragged toward us on his belly.

Here was possibly the world's first black and white furry amoeba with five digits protruding from a central glob of flesh. Only a leash suggested that his extremities were in fact a mammal's head with four double-jointed legs or that the object might possibly be a springer spaniel-border collie mix.

The volunteer stopped in front of Sue and dropped the leash at her feet. “This is ‘Chuck’,” she announced, and returned to the reception desk.

Chuck rolled to his back, exposing his genitals and pink and black spotted belly flesh. This was not your average eight-and-a-half-month-old pup eager to win hearts or minds or adoption. It was the mirror opposite of Rascal, our beloved first dog, a golden retriever-border collie mix who we had recently put down on advice from his vet. Rascal—fun-loving, affectionate, and always up-for-adventure—had been doomed by a respiratory disorder. His loss shattered me. For months, when I spoke of him, I chocked back tears.

Behind the reception area in Dillon, the cacophony of yips and yelps reminded us of the aisles of cages we had just inspected as we tried to ignore plaintive appeals for love we could not give. We had searched hard to fill the hole Rascal had left in us. For weeks, I had studied dog photos at various animal shelter websites. Chuck was white with black spots, a prerequisite; I couldn’t handle a reminder of Rascal, the golden blond. Charles was house-trained, too, we were assured. In the photo, Chuck cocked his head like the dog in the RCA logo ("His master's voice"). I love that picture.

Sue was sitting but not knowing quite what to make of the upside-down creature at her feet. She ran a finger down its belly. That’s when "Chuck" curled up and gave her hand a big lick. Soon he was on his feet, tail wagging, free of paralyzing fear. On a walk outside, he showed promise of heeling. We adopted him, naming him “Charley.” With a royal “y.”

In the following weeks, the passive creature from the shelter became hell on wheels. In downtown Bozeman, he jumped out of our pickup’s half-closed window and into traffic. He chewed my wire-rim glasses into a ball. He pulled Sue to her knees and dragged her into a party at an adjacent apartment. In a single bound, he landed on the middle of a perfectly set table on my brother-in-law’s patio. Sue and I considered returning him to the shelter, but a “dog whisperer” convinced us that he would soon lock onto us.

Are we ever glad we heeded the advice. On winter nights these eleven years later, he’ll sleep at our feet with his chin or a paw on our feet. Through snow drifts, he “submarines,” burrowing through white stuff like a torpedo racing through the sea. He bounds up, down, and around mountain trails, stopping only to let me catch up.

On a quiet night, he will roll to his back, asleep, exposing himself as always with no shame. Then and only then does he bark. His fidgeting legs tell us he's chasing a celestial squirrel. His eyes shine when he knows it’s time to go for a walk. When I go along, I lag behind Sue with my arthritic back. When Charley notices this, he stands halfway between us to keep me in his field of view. One evening, I got some news that made me sob like child. From behind my laptop screen, I felt Charley paw my knee. He had come from across the living room to give me solace with his brown, caring eyes.

To be loved by a dog is to be gifted with a being whose soul is heaven-sent.

I've begun to notice a gathering of gray in the black mask around Charley’s eyes.

Not even unbounded love lasts forever.