Charlywalker's Blog












Can anyone  claim that they are truly happy, and what is  involved in being truly happy?  Is it when you have an incredible belly laugh over something your dog did? Or maybe a family anecdote escaped  from a loved one and caused you to chuckle?

I love to laugh, I think laughter is the best thing God put on this earth yet I haven’t have a good laugh in years.  I’m talking about a “holding your gut” type of laughter or a possible “pea my pants” hysteria. I haven’t had a belly buster since I was in the hospital dressing my baby for our discharge and my three day old infant let out a fart that summoned the nurse into the room asking if we rang the “call” button..

I could be in a complete hormonal crash mode and my puppy will do everything possible to make me smile. My family is not cognizant of my dips in the estrogen scale, but my dog seems to be in sync with my cycles. Or lack of them. How is that?

My dog seems to know if I am ready for battle or ready to break down. My dog knows when to clear out of the way of my hormonal war zone or when to retreat to fetal position on my lap. Why is it my puppy knows more about my intrinsic whereabouts than I do?

  I have a battle going on within my body that  General  Grant himself could not stop. I have hormones screaming for freedom and radical change that the N.O.W.  would hold  as a P.O.W. if my Uterus wasn’t M.I.A. I have a constant struggle for autonomy encompassing my body that could have only been felt by Rosa Parks herself while demanding the front seat of that Greyhound.

I feel that my body has left me for another and I am summoned to co exist with  synthetic replacements.  I think menopause has left me stranded at the train station awaiting the midnight train to nowhere. I think I am left with a one way ticket to Hormonal Hell and the only way back is to dig deep into my Coach pocket book for a sedative or a 2008 Santa Barbara Chardonnay.

You can not tell me that there are not other women experiencing the same things I do with regards to the bodily changes after 50 or 40 or in some very rare cases 39. How can you tell if a person is really happy ? There are many people who pretend to be and carry their emotions on their designer sleeve all the while walking erect, eyes forward, and possibly struggling with demons within. I guess we’ll never know until they become headline news.

I believe laughter is the best medicine, but don’t let the AMA in on this  little secret or many Medical Men might go out of business and abolish that Happy Pill.  That pill that transforms perfectly normal people into Dawn of the Dead. That pill that takes someone from a vibrant sprinter to a lethargic shuffler. That pill that can neutralize womankind to a state of accepted behavior. I need one of those pills right now. Not for me, for my post neutered puppy.

I thought having him de-testicled would  make him calmer and less aggressive , but  lately he has been overtly spunky and has completely regressed to his infantile behavior. There must be some kind of lead line from his balls to his brain. Some kind of disconnect has resulted from his severed Dog- hood. Take away a puppy’s family jewels and you are left with an empty baguette. Charly-dog must be frustrated and confused and possibly not happy. Oh,  I see him periodically wagging is tail but I think he is just fanning his farts in my direction.

 I do witness him gnawing on his Faux filled bone with his eyes rolling to the back of his bobble head as he seems to enjoy gnashing his canines on the calcified cartilage. I have watched him tear into that thing for twenty minutes with out taking a breath totally engrossed in engraving his teeth marks into the cortex. Personally I think he is etching his initials into it to label his toys. My puppy is so bewitched by this bone that he has dragged  it through four rooms of the house in under twenty minutes. He is so content and happy with his treasure that I’m wondering if I should get myself a bone to pick on.

I may have to  improvise and find something in a soft chew as to not destroy the hundreds of dollars worth of caps & crowns imbedded in my mouth. I could just see me trying to explain to the Dentist why all my teeth are chipped and broken and sharpened into points. No I think I’ll leave that behavior for my puppy, he holds the secret to chewing on something until it disintegrates and it makes him happy.

I hold the key to the liquor cabinet and that makes me happy………………………………………………………………….

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{May 15, 2010}   A Cut Blog Has No Pups

I’m frightened. My puppy gets his lively hood  whacked off in two days. I don’t know how to tell him that soon he will be heading to the Vet to get gassed and wake up with missing body parts and he will blame me for all this.

I vacillate on this subject daily on whether its the right thing to do or not. One EDO tells me it is necessary:”dogs need to be neutered, the only reason they are not is for breeding purposes only”.What if we treated humans with that theory? It might be an answer to the population problem.

I have been given pre-operative instructions for this procedure for my puppy:

1) no food or water after midnight,

2) drop off is between 8-8:30am with pick up at 4 & 6p.m. and,

 3) bring his rabies certificate.

Why the rabies certificate, are they afraid that when he wakes up from the anesthetic he’ll instinctively go to lick his balls and find them absent and go rabid on the staff?  I would.

I am having difficulty with this decision to pursue this procedure. I have listened to the pros and cons and they come out evenly and all I have left to make the final cut is to flip a coin. Heads he stays intact, and well ,tails.. he…er….wags less??

 I guess what really has me concern is rather selfish in nature, I am more concerned about how my dog is going to react to me after all is well and done. Is he going to greet me in the morning with those big puppy eyes staring at me in wonderment as to where his marbles went, and hopefully think we are amidst a game of hide and seek?

Or Is he going to turn on me and hate me for removing his man hood without his permission. Will he sink into a deep post sedation depression and never fetch another ball for me because the reminder is too traumatic?

I did not experience any aberrant behavior when my reproductive organs were removed. I may  have smirked a little at the intolerable complaints from my daughter about her monthly cramps. I could have expounded on the eleven hours of labor I endured before she emerged onto the family scene, but pay back’s a bitch.

I took my puppy to the  IN-humane society and pulled him over to the check in desk where he instinctively decided to take a monstrous poop on the linoleum. After the swat team came to clean it up the receptionist(?) aka Vet Tech,jumped out from behind the counter with a small hypo containing Chaniel Sedation and administered it into his chi-hua-hua hiney  with the artistry of a Ninja.

This medication had absolutely no effect on my puppy, he has the metabolism of a hummingbird.  Because of Charly’s incessant barking the Vet decided to take him before the other five Cats that have been waiting for hours. I was Grateful.

The receptionist /Tech came from behind and opened a large grey door with the paint peeling off the front and ushered us through the hallways of trapped animals. I was half expecting an operating room scenario with the aseptic arena of Grey’s Anatomy featuring Dr. McSteamy, but I was guided through a laundry room with a back exit to a small RV parked in the lot. I Had a very big notion to grab my dog like a foot ball and plow through the place mowing down non English speaking service attendants, while throwing the keys to my daughter and yelling “start the engine”. But in that moment of imagination my dog was already limp in my arms with a grin as wide as Montana. I left him there amongst the old coffee cup in the drivers seat and an unfinished Tasty Cake on the console.

Sometimes  you just have to close the trailer latch behind you and not look back at the over stuffed garbage can leaning against the aluminum siding. Sometimes some things are just out of your hands and you have to trust who ever or whatever is thrust upon you in a back alley parking lot.

Or sometimes you have to just get in your car and wait  nine hours right outside their entrance.



{May 10, 2010}   Like Blogs Breath

There is a God. He showed up in the form of my husband. I knew  there was a reason I married him after being single for 36 years. He fixed my Espresso machine.  I have always owned an espresso machine at one time or another in my life, it is as common to me as putting on a pair of shoes in the morning before you venture out for the day. Even if they are flip-flops.

 I’ve owned more cappuccino machines than I have dogs. I haven’t own a dog for the majority of my life, as a child growing up my family had dogs, but my brother took on most the responsibility with the family pet. I recall we had the large breed of dog, like a German Shepherd.  I didn’t spend a lot of time with this dog, because he had an affinity for my older brother. They were inseparable. I admired this Hatchi relationship and wondered why I could never tap into it and develop my own friendship with the dog.

 I was in elementary school at the time and much too busy with my new Evening in Paris Barbie. I was very wrapped up in my Barbie dream world as a kid, I spent more hours walking Barbie’s plastic poodle than my own dog. Maybe I just wasn’t ready for the commitment and work of caring for a pet . I liked my ideal make shift world of a Dream house that collapses and travels with you. When I set up Barbie’s world she was not bogged down with domestics, she would just fancy off to her inflexible chifforobe and don a glitter gown for her evening in the spotlight at Studio 54. Barbie’s Amana fridge was stocked with miniature green plastic soda bottles with home made labels displaying Dom Perignon scripted from a fine tip sharpie.  Barbie was always busy, she traveled and socialized with other Mattel friends, she did not have time to learn to cook, get married, or raise children. She did ,however ,always make time for her pink plastic poodle.

Eventually as I grew into an adult, Barbie and I did have one thing in common; we both made great reservations. I am not the best domestic nor the worst. I would rather be trekking in the Amazon then to have to make dinner for four at six p.m. I would rather be shooting a 22 at a rifle range at three in the afternoon than fight the grocery store lines for the two for one specials on Doritos for my kids lunches. I’d rather have the beds made, laundry complete, and the food cooked by someone other than me, and so would my family for that matter. Their clothes would be less wrinkled and the food would be tastier. My puppy even notices when my husband prepares his doggie dinner.  He transforms his daily Science kibbles into Gourmet  Giblets with Gravy.

Some people are blessed with a  green thumb for home-made behavior. My mind has always wandered like a piece of driftwood on the sea every time I spray a can of furniture polish over the coffee table. I start to Envision myself at a book signing at Barnes & Noble  and conversing with the public about my best seller and then the reality hits when I  get spritzed with the Endust in the face because the nozzle is reversed..again.

Domestic chores are a form of prison for me and the only escape is hiring a housekeeper. I would do that if my Dog liked strangers, but he doesn’t. He also hates vacuums. So a stranger toting a vacuum in my house is a lethal combination. I wonder what Barbie would do? Just fold up her dream house and retire to her Black patten leather carrying case wearing her  pink silk jammies with her plastic poodle by her side? Both laying there in a coma like trance until their next days play. I wonder when Barbie turned 50  if Matel had her estrogen levels checked.

Women in menopause need a life size Barbie case. A giant suitcase containing all their private possessions surrounding them as they  lie next to their dog, neither of them blinking,and to be carried off to unknown territories only to be emptied all over the living room carpet to set up residence.  Again.

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{May 7, 2010}   Gone to the Blogs

I have finally reached rock bottom. My espresso machine broke and I am forced to drink Drip coffee. I can not function without my first cappuccino of the morning, I live and breath to arise to that foamy steamed milk laced with the most vile Peruvian coffee that Juan Valdez would never let his mule sniff. This gets me more excited than my puppy ripping through his cows ear covered with Jack Daniel’s barbeque sauce.

I love my cappuccino almost as much as I love my dog and  without my morning ritual I become as bitter as the taste of my cup of Joe.  I hate the fact that due to the physicality  affect my cappuccino holds on me, I have been forced to dole out a few bucks at the local Espresso stand. I don’t know which is worse, the lousy drip institutional tasting coffee or forking over hard earned dollars for overpriced fancy hot drinks.

 I think it all boils down to my being angry at my trustworthy machine  for losing it’s parts. I have had this machine for ten years and it had proven to be as faithful as my dog. I find I can not write without caffeine, oh I tried those Teen enhancer’s like Monster and AMP, they tasted like diluted cough medicine with an Alka-Seltzer chaser.  Plus I don’t like having to belch after every sip. Some beverages are designed for youth under 25 years of age. If I want bubbles bursting in my nose it better be bottled by the French and have the phrase Cuvee Paradis written on the label.

However, this is not a morning eye opener , well maybe for some people who may use it as an additive in their OJ;  but for me I love my capuccino. The aroma, the taste, the rush of that addictive mocha mud jump starting my circulatory system. The only sensation that can mimic that excitement is my Puppy pouncing on me at six a.m. The only missing link is the lack of a fresh brewed smell in his fur, maybe I’ll have to invest in espresso shampoo.

I have to say my doggie is getting calmer and behaving better and I am sure that is due to his budding maturity or my starting to calm down and not hyperventilate every time I take him out. maybe it’s the recent lack of adequate caffeine. When Charly and I head out on an expedition I completely transpose my body in to a KamaSutra state of mind and try to stay in that state until we return to our natural habitat. The House.

I think I am spending too many hours watching the Dog Whisperer, but I do like his incredible lightness of being around his pack. I don’t have a pack. I have a back pack. Maybe I could stuff Charly in there while we take walks around the neighborhood. I wish I could attribute my new found serenity to watching Master Milan and his Miracle Mutts, but my disposition is more of a null and void space and a zombie like appearance. I get up in the morning wearing whatever fell out of my drawer from the night before and shuffle down the hallway with one eye open toward my sleeping Dog for his morning walk. I try to get out there either before the rush hour of commuters or just after, so no one should bear witness to my clown like attire and report me to the home owners association as a possible asylum escapee.

My morning walks with my pup have been very sedate lately because my body is moving slowly to the rhythm of “absence of stimuli”. My capuccino machine broke and I can not function without it, it completes me. It gets my body parts to operate as they are designed to unlike my machine which can’t operate if a part breaks down and you have to wait three to four weeks for delivery. AND when the part finally arrives the Fed Ex driver won’t come to the house because of the barking Chaniel pup, so he leaves it by the mailbox; which then got picked up and ferried by another dog in the hood to some sacred burial spot.

I’m telling you this is gunna be rrr-ruff……….I’m falling apart.

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