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Charliedog

When Daniel and I buckled down on our goal to get a dog, I started planning it all out. I wanted something small to medium since we live in an apartment; a girl, of course; hypoallergenic fur; young but not a puppy. I even zeroed in on a breed that had all the qualifications: a Bossipoo. An adorable mix of Boston terrier and Poodle, that we'd name Bossy. She'd be my aptly named sidekick and sit on my lap at the office, acting as both a source of stress relief for me, and a beloved mascot for the office. She'd make best friends with all the neighborhood dogs, have manners envied by all other pet parents, love going for hikes and playing ball with her puppy cohorts in the park, and generally be the furry little light of our lives.
One Saturday, we decided to drop by the SPCA to at least "get the registration papers going" for future visits, as we kicked off the search for our new addition. We learned the majority of breeds you'll find in shelters are Chihuahua mixes and Pit Bull mixes because they're either misunderstood or unlovable, depending on whom you ask (kidding). We went down the hallway, peering into each room. There was the young Pit who let go a ferocious stream of pee as soon as we paused near the window; a wrinkly Shar Pei mix who could not, would not stop barking; a German Shepherd whose maniacal scratches at the door reminded us of a velociraptor scene in Jurassic Park; and then finally, a chill Husky/Australian Shepherd mix who seemed completely unfazed by everything. His name was Charlie, and he was 8-years-old, 15 pounds underweight, medium-large in size, covered in fur that shed off with every pet, and half deaf. And that's exactly who we ended up taking home the next day. 
                                                                       Charlie ready to be freed from the puppy clink. 
                                                                       CHARLIE READY TO BE FREED FROM THE PUPPY CLINK. 

But that's how life is. You map out every detail and the only thing that goes according to plan is the fact you managed to bring home a dog and not a mini pony.

Before springing Charlie out of the shelter, we dropped by Pet Express and spent an amount of money I'm not willing to admit here. We had to have the best of everything – an orthopedic bed, raw food to help him gain weight, toys for intelligent dogs, limited ingredient treats.
For the first few days, he refused to eat anything. Then when he finally started showing some interest, we had to hand feed him because he was an "affection eater," meaning he demanded the food be offered directly from a human hand. The first night, he immediately jumped on the couch and growled when we tried to get him off. The next day, he peed on a long fiber rug while staring at me, nothing but intention and remorselessness in those brown eyes.
It's interesting adopting a dog who’s already lived most of his life and acquired behaviors and habits taught to him by someone you'll never know. As we learned more about Charlie, his past made us want to be even better pet parents. The vet told us the wear on his teeth showed he'd never had proper nutrition or care, and equally sad, that he was never given proper chew toys to help his teeth develop. The $100 we'd spent on one bag of the best raw food didn't matter anymore, and the "indestructible" toy he annihilated in about 8 hours made us want to buy more. 
More and more, Charlie's personality has started to come out and he's integrated himself into our routine, our home, our lives, and our hearts (awwwwww). When we eat in the living room and lock him out for some peace, he peers through the glass and licks it in desperation as if it helps him taste the food while he watches us eat it. On the weekends, he'll prop the front part of his body up on the bed to wake us up, but not get in trouble for being fully on the bed. He taps our legs and sits when we're eating anything, as if to say, "Hey, don't forget, I'm down here and would like a bite, too." He sits near the window and watches everyone in the park, lifting his nose when a particularly interesting smell floats in. He waits in the hallway with his back pressed to the front door so he can feel the key go in and greet us the second the door opens.

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