A Tribute, Part 3
Editor’s note: Bruce Bouchard is former executive director of The Paramount Theatre. John Turchiano, his friend for 52 years, was formerly the editor of “Hotel Voice,” a weekly newspaper on the New York Hotel Trades Council. They are co-authoring this column to tell short stories on a wide range of topics.
Author’s note: A short recap – Part 2 ended with Charley arriving at my home at the Kingsley Grist Mill in North Clarendon. We just had a dip in the river, and an aggressive bath in the granary.
Immediately following the bath, Charley took an epic nap, in his sparkling new yellow coat with white highlights, and his jowls, fluffing from time to time with the sound of pleasant dreams. I watched him in awe and marveled at his beauty: his oversized head, his glorious coloring and his large paws, which looked to me for all times in our years together as more like hands than paws. But what next…toys, training, initial visit to a vet??!! Hey!! This brand spanking new pet in my life was my total responsibility! Let’s go with the vet!
Charley’s first home, the former granary of the Kinglsey Grist Mill, Clarendon, 2010.
A number of people recommended Dr. Scott (MacLachlan), a veterinarian in Poultney, right on the New York state border. So I made an appointment. Doc Scott was a throwback to another time, raw-boned at over 6feet, hair to the middle of his back, and small Goo-goo-ka-choo, I Am A Walrus” glasses. He could have been the vet for Jerry Garcia or Grace Slick. He exuded confidence and set me at ease. Charley’s tail was wagging back and fourth like a cow switchin’ flies, more than ready to make a new friend.
Dr. Scott sank to his knees and took Charley’s head in both of his hands, and said, “Well my, my — what we have here, is one fine lookin’ gentleman, a rescue did you say? ”Do you know how old he is?”
“I don’t.” I responded, “No one in the foster world seemed to have that information. What I do know is that a saintly woman in Kentucky spotted Charley and saved him from the ax. He had been with her for 3 weeks when I called.”
She had no information about his story or his age. She did say, she was about to call Brigitte to let her know she was keeping him for her own. “Hell, he is curled up around my feet as we speak, but dammit, I got four dogs, I don’t need another. I reluctantly give him over to ya, but if I find out you ain’t carin’ for him, I might have to come up there and kill ya my own damn self,” she told me.
Doc Scott bore down. He looked in Charley’s eyes, he looked in his mouth, he looked in his ears, and then he did a minute inspection of his body with his hands. Charley was as calm as 6 a.m. water on a country pond and took this vigorous work-over without a whiff of complaint.
“I will bet the farm that this pup is 1 year old, he is a fine dog indeed and you are one lucky rescue owner,” Scott said.
We finished the full protocol: shots, dietary advice, recommendation for training, and some basic do’s and don’ts. Doc Scott was a marvel, and I was so happy for the treatments and the advice.
Now, with the full emergence of the Vermont summer, the next month was a carnival, a father and son, bonding as two beasts, doin’ the dance of falling in love. Charley’s love was robust — he wanted to jump into my arms (if he could) at every turn, so expressive, so exuberant, so ready for action, “What ’cha got today, Dad?” he seemed to say. “I’m up for some fun, how’s about you?”
His running place was nearby — in, around, and through both the Jewish and Protestant Cemeteries, up on airport road. When I say he ran the cemeteries, I mean he bolted the entire circumference of the side by side cemeteries, a quarter mile at least, hunkered down and flying, his strong glutes churning. I was convinced the boy could hit 40 mph in 4.5 seconds.
We played throw the ball/stick/frisbee for hours, each time he came right back and spat the object out at my feet. It was only later that he added the coy business of keeping the stick from me. He would run a few yards away and flop down with the stick in his mouth, as if he was oblivious to my existence. I’d sneak up on him, grab the stick and an epic tug of war would ensue, sometimes rolling around on the grass, grappling for the stick. We hit the rocks in the Mill River and swam together in the deeper pools. He liked nothing more, when all the strenuous exercise was over, than to take a leisurely stroll on one of the many country roads. It was around this time that I noticed when he walked ahead of me, his butt swayed from side by side like Marilyn Monroe, in that white dress on the train platform in “Some Like it Hot.”
A lifetime habit of his was to chase animals, small and large. If a rabbit showed up, he was off like a shot. Those rabbits are clever and deceptively quick. They would stand stock still as Charley bore down on them and then at the last second, they would dart into the underbrush, leaving Wyle E Coyote to slam on the breaks…skeeeeirrrrr…like the cartoon coyote running off the cliff. He would then leap into the underbrush where he thought the bunny would be, and three beats later while he rummaged for the prey, the little brown rabbit scurried out of the underbrush 20 feet away and made his escape. Charley would come up emptyhanded and frustrated, his expression a full-on Oliver Hardy, “Abada, abada, abada, why, I oughtta!”
We had quiet times as well. At night after dinner he would sit at my feet, his paws crossed as I listened to music, worked on projects for The Paramount, or visited my social media sites. Eventually his head would go down to his paws, his eyes would close, and he would drift off to his Labrador dreamscape. I would spend time brushing his lush coat, in the warm weather pulling off spools of dog hair and always delighting him with a good long brush massage. Around this time, I started a habit, three or four nights per week, I would lay down next to him or get on my knees and press my cheek to the side of his long snout, like singing to a baby at bedtime. “He’s just a big baby, he’s just a big baby boy. Charley’s my big, BIG baby boy.” He would sigh with contentment and in time, drift off to sleep.
The life threatening panic of a group of uniformed women
Later in our first summer together, a remarkable thing happened. Charles and I were lolling about on the grass outside of the granary, on a warm and glorious day, when we heard what sounded like many women speaking at once, from a distance. We looked around the end of the granary, to find a phalanx of women moving their way down the 100-yard long private property driveway. These 30–40 women were wearing something like uniforms: long dark dresses of heavy fabric, high neck dark blouses and clunky dark shoes. Oh, and were coming from a bus I noticed parked at the top of the driveway. They must be urban tourists enjoying the wilds of summer in a tour of Vermont, I thought.
Charley and I watched with great interest, trying to figure out what this group of women was up to. They are certainly not dressed for a dip in the river, and I saw no fishing equipment; perhaps they just wanted to take a gander at this dynamic bend in the river with three continuous waterfalls. The crowd was gathered in a bunch turned toward the river when Charley had a socializing inspiration, jumped up and bounded down the steep embankment between the granary and the main house. He burst through the crowd, landing at the center of the women. They shrieked, and screamed. They recoiled with distended faces, eyes bugging out with horror, hands and arms pinwheeling the air — they looked to be backstroking in a pool of panic as they made a rapid withdrawal from this offending beast. Charley responded by running up to two and three at a time.
“Oh, my God… !! AHHHH, Get away! Arrrggghhh!! Don’t touch me!!!” they shrieked.
I grabbed his leash and hurried down to help. Charley seemed confused and hurt. He looked right at me “I only wanted to play!! I like them – why don’t they like me?” Group rejection was a new experience for him, and he did the only thing he knew how to do: he barked in his big basso profundo.
The ladies responded, more screaming, gnashing, and backstroking from the horror of a friendly English Lab… I leashed him and started up the road, neither of us understanding what might have caused such a high-speed blender of life-threatening panic for these uniformed women.
