Racing Stripes

For a bit of background on this post, I should explain my dog, Charlie.  Charlie is a 13-year-old Sheltie, although he has no clue he's a dog.  Charlie is still with us for one reason, and one reason only: my mother.  My mother is hands down the most caring, loving, nurturing person on the planet.  She treats Charlie just like a king- for example, Charlie has not eaten dog food in nearly 11 years.  As he grew older, and his body became less able to process delacacies like pizza, spagetti, and other table scraps, my mom started making him home made chicken soup that she serves over bread- for the dog!  Because I love my mother more than words, and because the only reason we have Charlie is because I begged and begged and begged for a puppy when I was 15, Blair and I "babysit" the dog while my parents are away.  Last night Blair was away on a golf outting with his firm, so it was me, Charlie, and 3 painters that my parents hired to spruce up the place while they were away.  This was a recipe for disaster.

I arrived at my parents house around 7:30. The painters had finished for the day.  The house was completely dark, and I slammed the door into the dog, who slept through me pulling up to the house, and opening the garage door.  After clearing Charlie out of the way, I tripped over the couch, and then a ladder before finding a light switch that was still connected to a lamp. 

Lights on, I realize that Charlie had not touched his chicken soup that Mom had put out for him earlier in the morning.  Great.  So I made Charlie a peanut butter sandwich and a granola bar (yes, seriously), which he did eat.  He was full and happy, and I was happy to be watching cable and to have some bonding time with Charlie. 

I awoke this morning to the painters coming back to finish the work.  I raced downstairs, grabbed the dog and took him out.  I realized Charlie now has a nice new white stripe down his side.  I called it his "racing stripe" I don't speak Spanish, but now the comment of "blah blah blah Charlie blah blah blah" from one of the painters made sense.  I shuffle Charlie back inside, gave him another granola bar, and put a little more soup in his dish and left.  On my way out the door, I stumble around the ladders and paint cans, and bump into the door frame, painting my side white.  Charlie and I now have matching racing stripes, and the nice man painting the family room repeated the same phrase "blah blah blah Ashley blah blah blah."