Dog Park Antics

Trying to be extra chirpy, doing my best laundry-commercial stretch.“Today is going to be a great day.”

“You say that a lot Robbie”, Charles replies, not lifting his eyes from the weekend edition newspaper.

“Yeah, it's a new thing I'm trying: being positive everyday, starting with the beginning of each day.” I'm still holding the stretch.

“Hmph”, is all Charles gives me.

“You want to go for a walk, Chars?”

Chars, being the more affectionate, abbreviated form of Charles I like to use; and he doesn't seem to mind too much anymore. I started using 'Chars' back when one of his lady-friends would phone, asking for 'Chars' in a thick snobby English accent. Its stuck since then.

“Come on Chars, it's a nice day, lets go”, I pester.

“Fine fine... Do I have to wear a stupid leash?”, he grumps back.

“Are you going to poop all over the place again?”

“Touché.”

“I'll get my keys.”

Into the car we go -- argue with Chars for 5 minutes, as usual, defending my stance why he can't drive. It usually boils down to the “because you don't have a license” defense.

His latest rebuttals: “Those laws don't apply to dogs.”

I'm hoping he isn't taking the same stance with other areas of the law, namely murder and theft. That reminds me, mental note: confront Charles on where he gets his money. He doesn't have a job, at least not that know of, yet he always has an ample amount of spending money. Strange.

“Robbie, it's kind of weird that we drive to where were going to walk, don't you think?”, Charles states. A little early in the drive for the usual conversational 'monkey wrench', but he did have two glasses of coffee today.

“Umm, well... not... not really. We just know where we like to walk, and that's not here.” Shoot! I should have sounded more confident. The insecurity in my voice is an opening for a 'Charles verbal attack'.

“I mean really, if we like walking so much, why don't we...”

“Do you want me to pull over!? We can just walk around here! I mean, the dog park has lots of other dogs, and nice trails, but if you'd like to stay here on our empty suburban sidewalks, that's cool. I'll turn around right now!” I had three cups of coffee this morning, checkmate Charles.

Charles, a little taken back, gives me the 'fine, case closed, but your defense was pretty weak' nod. You know the one. Left eye brow slightly raised, smug. Jerk.

The afternoon at the off-leash park was refreshing, and would have been a bit more enjoyable if Charles wasn't there. Sure, sometimes we have good walks and talks: stimulating conversation that bring revelations on life, etc. But today was another 'attitude Charles' day. It usually starts with Charles walking with me, and just before a dog passes us -- the type with a really long breed name, with a Soviet state at the beginning of it – he jumps in animated horror, gags and gasps a few times, and screams: “Amazing, they taught that dog to walk backwards!”, or “Keep it away! Diseased! What ever that mutt has I don't want to get! Please save me!”, or something along the lines of, “I thought Frankenstein was just a story! Ack!”

Stupid over-actor. Charles frightens me, funny looking dog and funny looking dog's owner, with a long awkward silence following as Charles goes into his hyperventilation routine. The real strange thing is: I don't get that embarrassed by it anymore.

For such a bright scholar, it's surprising how Charles can turn into a such an immature prick, so well and so often.

Back to the car, “No, you can't drive”, and we're off.