Charlie

I've never liked dogs.

I've always thought they spent the bulk of their time barking, pooping and smelling bad. I never got the "man's best friend" deal. We had one only briefly when I was a kid and resisted our own children's entreaties to get one.

But I love Charlie. He is my daughter's 100-pound 10 year-old Old English Sheepdog who, along with Janice, is spending the summer with us.

Charlie is smelly. Charlie does bark and manages to produce human-sized poop that has to be picked up. He also has a knack for lying down in the house in the most inconvenient place.

Janice inherited him a year ago when my sister died. Before that, I mainly remember Charlie as an unwieldy beast who would muscle his way to the coffee table where hors d'oeuvres were put out at my sister's house during holiday celebrations. If you made the mistake of holding a canape in your hand for a moment, he would snatch it away. Cute or what, huh? But now I see him as sort of a slow-footed dull-witted but loyal adjunct to the family. He tries to never let Janice out of his sight and always seems appreciative of a scratch under his chin or behind his ear. When we've had our crying jags over the last few weeks, he actually seems to join in.

His most distinctive trait is that he loves to ride in cars. In fact, once he's ensconced in the back seat, he would rather sit there all day than have to actually exit the car. Sometimes he looks up at me and seems to be contemplating the universe. I asked Janice what do you think is on his mind? "Food," she said.

Janice had him washed today so he actually smells pretty good and he's more fun to hug. I still won't pick up his poop though.