His prison name was Chico. It never remotely suited him, and he didn't answer to it. It was just a name they gave him at the shelter, and no one seemed to know who he really was. It took a couple of weeks for his real name to emerge. One day he was Charley and there was no turning back. I read Steinbeck's Travels with Charley when I was young and the spelling seemed right. At first Rob thought it was a feminine spelling till I reminded him about the book. He was always Charley, never Charlie. A couple of years later the neighbor kid Willy still shouted "Chico!" when he saw our dog. He is Charley, I would reply silently through clenched teeth. Learn my dog's name.
He was about one and a half years old and when we met him he had been passed over twice by prospective owners. Each had taken him home from the shelter and then brought him back after a few days. Twice. Why? we asked the shelter person. Allergies, he said, somewhat vaguely. Thirteen years later we held each other sobbing as the vet loaded his body on a stretcher into the SUV, a blanket covering his lower half but his still-beautiful face visible, and Rob said through his tears, "I can't believe someone passed him up twice."
All together, he had spent at least six weeks, maybe more at the shelter and he was as crazy as you would expect after so much prison time. I was deeply apprehensive as I watched the shelter handler struggle to bring him to us on a leash, the dog leaping in four directions at once. I couldn't imagine that this wild creature was to be our family pet, the dog we had been dreaming of through all our years as renters. But Rob saw something in his face and we brought him home.
First way in which Charley made me a better person: don't be so concerned about behaviors. Look deeper.
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