Puppy Love

The Little Demon

His defiant stance annoyed me. While weighing no more than 5 pounds, he stood with resolute fearlessness, knowing that he could block my entire convoy—a row of vehicles with a combined weight of almost 100,000 pounds.

And I was the object of his intense gaze.

I radioed the convoy leader. “Roberto, what’s it doing? What does it want?”

Roberto honked repeatedly. “I don’t know! It’s just standing there!”

This diminutive dog, completely immune to the cacophony of noise inundating him from all directions, blocked the entire intersection. Not once did he cease to peer into my soul with his eyes.

“Drive towards it. See if it moves,” I said.

Roberto inched his truck forward. “I’m so close I can’t even see him anymore!”

It had been over 30 hours since I last slept, and I was rapidly losing my patience. “Then maybe you should just run that son of a bitch over.”

Roberto hesitated. “But…it looks like a small puppy. That’s cruel.”

“Damn it…I didn’t mean it…I’m just tired, man. I’m sure it’ll move, of course,” I said, grabbing my gloves and stepping outside. “That little shit is still staring at me. He has not looked at anyone else. The hell does he want with me.”

“Hehe. He’s a demon dog from hell and he wants your soul,” Roberto radioed back.

The little demon’s ears perked up when I slammed the driver door. As I moved slowly toward him, he held still, eyes still firmly fixed on me.

And off he went, dashing frantically towards the truck, weaving perfectly through the vehicles and charging right at me.

Jose, the passenger in my truck, jumped out. “What? What’s happening?!”

“Don’t know.” I searched around the car. “He’s just barking…I don’t…Oh, shit.” I received my answer—a soft meow.

To evade the puppy in pursuit, a kitten had snuck beneath my pickup truck. I attempted to grab the kitten, but he slipped right through my hands and escaped.

Naturally, the little demon ran after his kitten friend.

I chased and grabbed him. “Stop, you little shit. You’re gonna get your ass run over.”

He licked me as I placed him in the backseat. “DON’T piss or shit in my car.”

He barked.

“He’ll eat you if you do!” Jose yelled.

I winced at Jose. “I’m not that kind of Asian.”

A Dog’s Life

Ms. Crawford, my landlady, named him Charlie because he was brown—like Charlie Brown. And I was too tired to question that line of reasoning.

Charlie never left my side whenever I was home, and he would always greet me at the gate when I returned from work (like in the photo). He was always energetic, always eager, and always endearing.

“You know, I told them to run you over,” I said one day, cradling him in my lap.

He drooled all over my face.

“Damn it, you asshole. Stop doing that.” I grabbed a towel and started cleaning him.

I made it a point to keep Charlie as clean as possible—not a single dirt spot in sight. Whenever I saw him covered in dirt, it would sadden me, because that was how I found him.

And I always made sure he was well-fed because he was malnourished when I found him.

He was only one year old, but he appeared as if he had been living on the streets for much of his young life.

“You like that dog more than you do people,” said Ms. Crawford.

“That I cannot deny.” I gave Charlie his bowl of treats. “People piss me off. But Charlie manages to piss everywhere and still not piss me off.”

Charlie immediately pissed on the floor.

“Alright, now you’re just doing that on purpose. Punkass dog.”

I couldn’t blame him though. He lived on the streets for so long. To him, everywhere was a toilet.

Just My Type

Whenever someone mentions to me what their “type” is, I always think of the same quote.

“Brown eyes are just brown eyes until you fall in love with someone with brown eyes. ”

When it came to dogs, I had always wanted a husky. They were large, athletic, and lovely. And their eyes were often blue, bright, or fierce. Aside from an actual wolf, a husky was perfect. I liked the way they looked. A husky was the type of dog I preferred.

But I loved this puppy and his brown eyes.

Truthfully, any eye color would have been the best color, because they were his eyes.

Charlie, like most dogs, would never have a type. He was open to everything and everyone. Although I never paid him much attention initially, he gave me a chance from the start.

I wanted to live as Charlie did. It was a wonderful way to live—free and unconstrained by one’s limited understanding of the world.

Because of Charlie, I gave up the idea of having a “type” altogether. It was just like the quote’s message. Something only seems ordinary until you fall in love with it.

I did not love him because I liked the way he looked. I liked the way he looked because I loved him.

There is much more complexity to someone (even a puppy) than what is perceived on a superficial level, whether that be looks or the first impression of character.

Judging anyone based on whether they seem like your type is tantamount to judging a book by its cover—a silly idea because you are hoping to be right despite only knowing 1% of the information.

More importantly, one’s tendency toward a “type” of person, pet, activity, or lifestyle does not guarantee happiness.

It’s just what you think you will be happy with. So, unless you are certain you do not like something, dismissing it because you do not think you will like it is just limiting yourself.

Simply put, your decision to go with your “type” does not result in a 100% chance of being happy. But it does absolutely result in a 100% chance of missing out on so many other things that could make you even happier while changing your mindset and broadening your horizons for the better.

The husky comparison is actually sadder than it sounds. I had asked several friends if they would adopt a lost puppy. Some asked if it was a husky, and declined when I showed a picture of Charlie. Their loss.

Only Win Once

Charlie’s affection was so pure. He had been clearly abandoned and left to die on the streets, but he had no hesitation to bond with others. He always gave his whole heart, hoping one day someone could respond in kind.

He was the most affectionate whenever we played on the couch together. It was a daily routine—Charlie and I messing around on the couch while Ms. Crawford watched her Hallmark shows.

“I wish I could love as you do, Charlie,” I said, rubbing his head furiously. “Always giving everything can hurt, you know?”

“Love can’t hurt you, Ace.” Ms. Crawford said, a warm smile running across her face. “Someone who doesn’t know how to love hurts you.”

I stared at Charlie for a long time as I pondered that statement. Perhaps he instinctively knew that.

Charlie loved as if he couldn’t be hurt, as if his heart could never be broken.

It never mattered how many times he was hurt or chased away. It never mattered how many times he failed in his quest to bond with others. He only had to win once.

When it comes to love, you only have to win once.

Always a Good Boy

Throughout my travels around the world, I have never met a dog that matched Charlie’s energy, enthusiasm, or affection. Out of the hundreds of dogs I’ve seen, not one surpassed Charlie in any of those traits—not because the others were not special, but because Charlie was too special—one of a kind.

I often get asked about my biggest regret in life. The answer was always the same: I did not adopt Charlie, because I traveled too often for work in the oilfield.

I had kept in touch with Ms. Crawford, and would I often ask about Charlie’s welfare. She said she found Charlie a good loving home.

“Do you think…do you think he’ll remember me?” I asked.

“He will always remember you. No matter where he goes, no matter who he loves, he will always remember the one person who stopped to save him. He will always be your dog.”

From time to time, I still think of Charlie. I imagine him running around in a vast and verdant backyard somewhere. I imagine he’s still chasing random cats. I imagine him full of the same kind of love that warmed my heart. I imagine he’s still jumping on people’s laps—uninvited.

I’m sure he’s still living and loving so effortlessly—just like the day I found him. But, in hindsight, it would be more honest to say that he found me.

I see now that Charlie was not the one who was lost.