Charlie . . .

Since I brought her up and people have asked . . . let's talk about Charlie. No. She's not my dog. 

I can't own a dog. I'm not a "dog person" and my landlord is anti-pet (and Obamacare as he frequently clarifies for no apparent reason). Nope. Charlie belongs to "Special Lady Friend" (which is still the creepiest thing I can think of to describe someone I care about - if I come up with something creepier, I'll let you know).

Charlie is a two-ish-year-old brown annoyance. I'm told her and her breed (chocolate lab) will retain puppy-like traits for at least four years (which seems unduly obnoxious). Even "better"? Charlie is extra special. 
  • She has the memory of a goldfish. 
  • She has a head that is too small for her body (that is the astute finding of a woman of science). 
  • She barks at perceived enemies (like tree branches). 
  • She has anxiety disorder(s) -- PLURAL -- that force her to just randomly lick things. Like feet. And the carpet. And remote controls. And feet. And feet.
  • She is pretty sure that every spoken word is "Charlie, come here, girl. I want to love on you and have you lick me and my feet."

I talk a big, emotionally-distant game but I sorta love her (when I'm not Google-ing "life expectancy for female chocolate labs" and "places in Wichita where dogs frequently disappear") and we're figuring out how to not just survive but enjoy each other. 

Okay. I am trying to enjoy her. She has no idea who I am. 

Here is Charlie trying to figure out who I am after we went on a mile-long walk. Just the two of us, I'd like to point out. Tied together by a purple leash. 

This is Charlie with her "Shalom Bone" beside her and a chicken/sweet potato jerkey treat thingy that I bought her in an impulsive reaction to the death of a colleague (true story) in her mouth. She eats like a person who had been otherwise lost at sea might.

Anywho. There. Charlie. Now we've all been formally introduced.