Charlie: A tale of wagging

My best friend just died.

I used to think it cliché that dog is considered man's best friend. But that was before I met Charlie … or at least before he moved in.

We met on March 16, 2010, the day after I first laid eyes on my now-wife. He was a skinny white and brown and black and grey beagle with some pointer and maybe some other breeds, too. From the moment I first petted him to the waning moments of his life early this afternoon, Charlie's tail wagged incessantly. We only ever clashed once, a battle over which one of us would share the bed with Rachel. Ever-protective, he grudgingly relocated to the floor ... providing his tacit approval of my courtship of the woman he was changed with watching over.

Shocked was I to learn that this puppy was at the time some 10 or 11 years old! Impossible! He pranced around, ears flopping, tail wagging drumming the cupboards. An old dog of salt and pepper years though he was, his waggy tail and effervescent personality belied a happiness that caused me to always think of him and refer to him as a puppy. With Charlie, it wasn't about the years of life, but the life of the years.

After he and Rachel moved into my Marlborough townhouse in October 2011, Charlie quickly became my best friend. Never more than about eight feet away from me, Charlie was the epitome of loyal. He followed me just about everywhere, and even if he was lying adjacent to me he would always look up to make sure I hadn't moved.

Charlie and Wembley became brothers, usually sleeping next to each other and regularly playing, mostly with Wembley chasing Charlie around our loft. Charlie served as protector-in-chief, shouting at unknown persons and animals, usually deciding that smelling butts and licking penises was preferable to combat.

Sometimes, especially when I would put Wembley's harness on in our Marlborough basement, Charlie would bellow at me. I don't know what he was trying to say, but I loved it. Woo,woo-oo!

His eyes, dark brown and filled with so much soul, would melt Rachel into giving him pizza crusts and other sundry leftovers. While in Marlborough, Charlie loved playing with cookies, feinting and faking and tossing it to himself. Hilarious always our happy puppy.

On walks, he would sometimes crouch low in the middle of the low grass as if hiding from prey or predator. Easily seen, the scene was indeed quite comical.

When we moved to Sudbury and its wood and tile floors in 2012, Charlie's prancing and regular walking around announced his arrival well in advance, and he spent many nights walking the hallways. The clicking and clacking of his toenails was sometimes a source of Rachel's frustration, but we miss that sound now as our house is silent.

Following the move – and the subsequent adoption of Brady – Charlie barked most commonly in support of Brady, who had since taken on the role of director of security. We oft pointed out, “you don't even know what you're barking at!” but the old puppy did not mess around when it came to his family or their safety.

He also took very seriously his job as assistant dishwasher. Nary a utensil or bowl was neglected by Charlie's dedicated cleaning of items in the open dishwasher. Just this morning he licked a spatula so vigorously that it fell out of the machine. He also maintained focus on clearing up any floating flotsam from the grille, which led to him standing beneath it while awaiting whatever culinary debris falls through the cracks old grills.

Sometimes Charlie would follow so closely that we would accidentally turn into him or he would get a little too close to the buttocks of a naked man peeing at first light. But that was part of his canine charm. He just wanted to be near us, to experience the excitement of the seemingly mundane activities of daily life. Or occasionally actual excitement, like our practice of dancing to "Zombie Nation" whenever the Boston Bruins scored during the Stanley Cup!

In the fall of 2013 Charlie suffered spinal issues after a routine medical procedure led to a lack of balance. It seemed that he might not make it, and if not for the incredible decision Rachel made to contact an animal chiropractor he might not have. Anna's excellence over the past year allowed Charlie to continue prancing and following, despite our encouragement to sit or lie still. Since climbing and ascending stairs exacerbated his ailment, we have carried him up and down each flight of stairs.

This may sound annoying, but it was endearing. Charlie quickly learned that stairs were off limits, so he almost always waited for the “Charlie Shuttle” to ferry him down or up the steps. Our mornings were especially ritualized: carry him down to the kitchen, set him down to have a drink, carry him outside and set him down to pee, feed all dogs – topping Charlie's kibble with tomato sauce or ketchup or parmesan cheese or fish oil – carry him back outside to poop, carry him up to the office to start our day. For the past year, I have seldom walked up or down a flight of stairs without Charlie in my arms.

Bedtime was similar: cradling Charlie in the right-arm Shuttle, a glass of water in my left hand, climing the stairs and spinning inside the first hallway door to close it – a late night pirouette with my best buddy – tracing the route into the bedroom to his favorite bed, which as he grew older and older migrated nearer and nearer to my own sleeping position. Setting him in place, hoping he would stay still while I readied for bed but expecting to hear clicking and clacking within moments. Oft he would poke his head around the bathroom threshold and as soon as he could see me he would retreat to his bed ... only to repeat a minute later.

Charlie was simultaneously showing me that he missed me while also making sure I was okay.

Working at home, we spent almost every day together. I shared more time and more words with Charlie than any other human or pet. He was my assistant, even if his skills with spreadsheets were not particularly good. Whether Charmander, Charlie Boy, Carlito or Charles, if I was at my desk, he was by my desk.

This morning started same as most. After coming inside from his morning constitution we did some dishes together and then went up to settle in to the office for some futsal work and the Arsenal match. After setting him in the office I walked to the front closet to retrieve a candle. I was gone about one minute when his flailing body crashed down the stairs. Rachel was close behind him and as he squealed in evident pain, even after I scooped him up.

Wembley and Brady came to check on their brother and shortly thereafter Wembley climbing into bed beside Charlie for a bit. Last night Brady showered Charlie with some extra affection, washing his brother's ears, a sometimes ritual they share. A couple weeks ago Brady got up and changed beds so Charlie could sleep in his favorite spot. The may not be brothers by birth, but they are in practice.

After sitting on the floor petting him for about an hour we drove to Compassion Vet Clinic, Charlie swaddled in his favorite blanket atop his favorite bed, me rubbing the top of his head during the 10-minute ride.

No major issues were evident to external observation so the doctor took x-rays. When she returned with the images and explained her assessment, Rachel's demeanor changed. As I sat on the cold, hard floor of the veterinary exam room stroking Charlie's ears I recognized the question we were forced to answer.

It is a question that in theory I have asked and answered many times in my mind – about my own life, about my pets and about people I love. In reality, there is a particular impossibility of making such a decision. And that impossibility becomes infinitely more impossible while looking into the adoring eyes of a loved-one.

Across a spectrum of choices where none of the choices are good ones, is the right choice always the absolute hardest one? In that very moment, what is the best intersection of logic and love?

On Thursday night – with Charlie by my side, of course – I watched “The Last Word,” during which Lawrence O'Donnell profiled and examined the case of the Oregon woman choosing to end her life on her own schedule so as to prevent inevitable and painful suffering caused by her ongoing brain tumor. She knew that her time was short, yet her quality time even shorter.

Some 36 hours later Rachel and I were faced with a similar question. Although we had no doubt considered it during this past year, we had not previously discussed the answer. I am grateful that we were there together, and I am grateful that I married a woman who not only understands medicine-y things but who has the steel to initiate difficult decisions.

No decision I have ever made – or been part of making – has been as difficult. Our eldest dog was mentally ready, wanting badly to stand up and prance home to play with his brothers. But physically his quality of life would be that of near paralysis. I would carry him up and down stairs and hold him upright for the rest of my life. I would pay any penny for surgery. But his condition would never improve, and his comfort and quality of life would never be the same. Thus, an impossibly difficult to accept reality rendered an impossibly difficult decision.

In his final moments tears streamed down my cheeks while I stroked his right ear, our gazes locked as he faded away. I hope Charlie was comforted and that he knew how much I loved him and how much he will be missed.

He taught me many things, that dog. Before I met Charlie, I detested pet hair. Over the years I got used to it, and now I could care less. I type this wearing a navy blue fleece covered mostly in Charlie hair.

He taught me the true meaning of loving unconditionally. He did not care what I said, what I did or what mistake I made. He stared at me always with admiration, he waited at the top of the stairs for me always in anticipation, and he followed and stayed with me always in adulation.

He taught me that some people – and dogs – just don't want to go swimming. Ever. He also taught me that water should be available on every level of the house at all times. And he taught me that sleeping with your tongue hanging out is cool.

Charlie showed me a resiliency and attitude in his later years that I hope to have when I am older. He faced aging, injury and fear with the same wag and bounce that he did while dashing through the horse paddock when I first met him.

I saw a bumper sticker recently that read, “Who Rescued Who?” Charlie, albeit last in the hierarchy of top dogs among residents of our house, was unquestionably first in the line when it came to sharing love and happiness. He gave Rachel and me so much joy and affection and was truly the heartbeat of our home.

While at a pet store in Kansas a couple years ago I bought him a magnet, which adorns the mirror I look at while brushing and flossing (two activities Charlie admittedly spent little time on). It shares 10 “Dog Lessons for People” and I subscribe to each one of them, particularly those of which Charlie was a paragon: “be loyal, faithful and quick to forgive” and “love unconditionally.”

It will be a while before I can look at the magent or traverse the stairs or feed Wembley and Brady or even sit at my desk without feeling sad. Rachel and I will try to evade silence, longing for that clicking and clacking. We will wish him to settle his nose onto our legs in search or affection or a treat. We will even hope for a whiff of his putrid breath.

Charlie's absence in our home and hearts is forever, but so too are the wonderful memories of our happy puppy, tail eternally wagging.