[Dailydrool] Happy Birthday, Young Charlie!

[Elizabeth Lindsey]

Although young Charlie turned seven on the eleventh, we celebrated  
his birthday with a peanut butter-carrot cake on the ninth. This week  
hasn't been conducive to good birthday celebrations. By the end of  
today, I'll have taken my mother to four doctor appointments and one  
vet appointment in three days, and I will have written up four  
detailed reports of each visit for her (she has hearing loss, so the  
reports let her know what she missed because her health care  
professionals mumbled or turned away from her while speaking so she  
couldn't lip read).

Because this has turned into Mum's Major Medical Week around here,  
poor Charlie didn't get a whole lot more than just cake and being  
sung to. No walks, no trips to McDonalds or PetSmart, not even any  
really good cuddles. Just a lot of time in his crate because I have  
to be gone with my mother all day. Although on his birthday night we  
did spend some time dancing together and with our Elsinore because he  
asked if we could. He asks by throwing down his best dance moves for  
me and then waiting to see if I'll follow his lead. If you know  
anything about ballroom dancing, you know that the woman must always  
follow the man's lead.

So I followed Charlie's lead and spent half an hour tossing him  
treats for doing twists, arounds, weaves, paws up, side passes, and  
other tricky maneuvers. He's learning how to speak on command, though  
too softly for any audience to hear. I don't really think that  
barking is dancing, but I'm not arguing with him about it and perhaps  
he'll find a way to work it into a routine. I think Charlie felt our  
dancing together was a good enough birthday thing to do.

Every year he has a birthday I feel the same sense of amazement that  
he's as old as he is. He sure doesn't act his age. He hasn't acted  
his age since he was about a year and a half! Young Charlie may be  
seven now, but he remains more like two in his heart. The things I've  
taken out of his mouth in just the last twenty-four hours.... He may  
be seven and his face may be going white, but I'm still very careful  
about not leaving things on the floor. No piles of magazines, trash  
cans, clothing, shoes, or open bags left on the floor around here. At  
least not by me. Ken's another story, and I'm starting to suspect I'm  
never going to get him trained not to leave his things where Charlie  
can reach them.

Charlie dips into my paper recycling and shreds it for me. All over  
my office floor. He gets into the toilet paper. He trolls the bedroom  
and coffee table regularly for the ski caps, ace bandages, and knee  
braces Ken leaves within reach, and then he shows me he has them so  
I'll chase him and then play Trading Post with him. Basically I'm  
giving him a treat reward for bad behavior. But I guess I'm just that  
charmed by the merry twinkle in his eyes.

There have been a few times when I haven't been charmed at all, such  
as last weekend when he thought he'd dismantle a fragile hydrangea in  
the backyard. I don't spend tons of money on water bills nursing that  
bush through Nashville's hot, dry, miserable summer every year for  
him to chew it all up in one afternoon. I was dead serious about him  
leaving that bush alone. And I wasn't charmed the other day when he  
started taking out the popsicle sticks that were marking my rows of  
winter vegetables. Both times I gave him a choice: either stop that  
Right Now or go sit in his crate all by himself in the house while  
Elsinore and I are out in the yard having a good time without him.  
Either he thought I didn't really mean it, or the fun was worth the  
price he was going to pay. Let's hope the fun turned out to be worth  
the hour he wound up in his crate.

When Charlie first came to live with us a little over six years ago,  
there were a few days when I came just this close to taking him out  
altogether because of the damage he wrought (I still haven't quite  
forgiven him for the teethmarks he left on my folk harp). But then  
he'd fall asleep in my arms and look so cherubic that I'd decide to  
let him live one more day. I'm glad I did. He still falls asleep in  
my arms and looks cherubic, and when he's awake, he's a joyful boy  
who almost always makes me laugh even while I'm scolding him. At  
seven, he's conceivably halfway through his expected life span now.  
I'm hoping I'll get at least another seven years of taking toilet  
paper and socks out of his mouth and holding him while he sleeps with  
his head on my shoulder and his warm breath on my neck.

Happy birthday, Young Charlie--and many more!

Elizabeth