Charlie came running into our laps and our lives, literally and figuratively, only a year and a half ago. And more than anything in the world Charlie simply wanted to belong and be loved. He was always excited to go. Go anywhere. Go for a drive, a walk, a run, a ski. In a park last summer a guy called him, "A 60 mile dog." Really? "Yep, he's good for 60 miles a day, every day." And he was right. Charlie loved to run. Anywhere, pointlessly. He would tear off away down the trail or down the beach, and with a whistle he would come tearing back to us, often running into our legs because he just couldn't slow down in time. A friend took Charlie for a 12-mile run one morning. When they got home Charlie took a nap, woke up after lunch, and started bugging my friend to go back outside again.
Charlie was a snow dog. He loved the snow. Loved rolling in it and burying his face in it. Loved to eat it. He loved to go skiing, and quickly learned to follow the skin track, stay away from ski's sharp edges, and the thrill of porpoising downhill in deep powder.
Charlie loved living. And he fought being sick all summer and into September, even loosing his left front leg. "Charlie-The-Tripod," he would wag his tail in defiance. Last week he finally used up all his miles and couldn't fight anymore. We said goodbye to Charlie on Saturday, at a park in Seattle, while he watched waves hitting the beach and snow on the Olympic Mountains.
