The other morning, like most mornings, I took Patches and Cali to the dog park. Their barks grew louder as we approached the park while I was singing to songs from the radio marketed to fourteen year old’s. This is our daily routine. Going to the dog park each day is not only necessary, but it is vital for our serenity.
The two gremlins bolted out of their crates in all their glory, waiting no time to chase the meaning of life in the form of a tennis ball. We walked around the park making the rounds. I said hello to the regulars while nodding to people I did not know. The dog park always has a tendency to put me in a state of balance and well-being.
While chucking the ball back and forth for my four legged kids, a dog came up to me. He was such a friendly dog. This particular dog was extremely happy; living in the moment the way all dogs do. I called him “Charlie” (which he responded to for some odd reason). I threw the ball for him and he came back giving me a “ruff” along with the wag of his tail for approval. After a few tosses, Charlie went on his merry way.
After finishing our routine, I looked for Charlie and his owner. That was the strange thing. No Charlie. No owner. That’s because when Charlie left, he walked back into heaven. He was my Charlie. Charlie passed away three years ago at the age of six from cancer. He just came down from heaven to tell the dogs and I he was OK. And that night, the dogs and I slept well, knowing Charlie was OK.
Charlie (left) last picture ever taken with Patches.