By Bruce Bouchard and john Turchiano
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 3 ended after we escaped a crowd of women in distress at the sight of Charley. We were about to get some very good news.
As the summer of 2010 wore on, a new opportunity presented itself. During the time at the Kingsley Grist Mill I had grown weary of living in such small quarters, and despite the glorious surroundings, decided to jump on an offer to move into a farmhouse, built on 128 acres in Middletown Springs, 16 miles due southwest of Rutland, 6 miles east of the New York border. The original house was built in 1790 and for more than 100 years the property had functioned as a popular apple orchard. It was generously provided by Dan (a trustee of The Paramount at the time) and Judy Querrey, who were going to start living on a boat mostly out of the Bahamas and Florida. The farmhouse was spectacular: five bedrooms, three baths, a huge back deck, a big pond and a large barn just across a dirt road separating the property.
– Orchard Road in Middletown Springs provided a home for Charley with land to roam.
Best of all, it was heaven on earth for Charley. He was like a 10-year-old kid walking into Disneyland for the first time, “Oh, man! How cool is this! I don’t know where to go first: should I run up that great big, forested hill, or should I jump into this cool, big pond, or investigate that area over there around the barn, wait, do I see cows over the hill across the road!!
Yah-Hoo!”
The great thing for Charley was that he was now free to roam, as we were the only house on Orchard Road. Doc Scott (veterinarian) told me that if I was ever situated, to let him roam, given that his sense of smell is 70 times greater than ours, he would always return home. We hadn’t been there for an hour when he dashed up the hill, like the Saratoga racehorse, Funny Cide (who went off at 15-1), clearing the field and winning the 2003 Kentucky Derby. If humans could be filled with that kind of joy, the world would be a far better, and more well-adjusted place.
The hill became one of his favorite destinations. I would follow his movements, a little blond dot, sniffing around the tree line all the way up the hill, foraging and loving every minute of his little discoveries. I would blow a whistle and he would stop, look up and then kick in those glutes, tearing down the hill with wild abandon, drawing a bead on me, on my knees on the lawn adjacent to the pond. He slams to a stop in front of me, throws his arms around my neck and licks my face from top to bottom in a repeat of the bath in the pool in the Mill River.
“Hi! Hi! Hiiiii! Love the new spot, you bet!” Both of us were in heaven.
It was around this period that I began to introduce Charley into the downtown community in a big way. During the time at the Mill, I could leave him for the day and return the 7 miles from the theatre for lunch, to walk him and give him a treat. I did take him occasionally but mostly he seemed to prefer his bed in a cool corner of the grain house, or on the lawn under a large patch of shade from a tree outside our front door. When I returned home early (the summer months at the theatre were less demanding) we would be sure to hit the rocks for a swim or a long walk up-stream. Charley was super-charged to try to catch frogs and occasional fish wending down-stream in the lazy Mill River.
Now that I had a 16 mile commute, I took him with me most days. Our rhythm at the theatre settled quickly. He established a beachhead on my funky corduroy couch in my fun, big empresario office at The Paramount, either dreaming the dreams of a dog, or keeping an eye on me as to when we might hit the street. We would take a stroll two times a day, stopping to allow children and adults alike to meet Charley and give him big hugs and lots of love. He was always so very gentle, sweet and dear, visibly pleased at the attention and affection from random people. One destination was always my bank (Citizens Bank, which you will remember from Brigitte Ritchie in Part 1 of this series). I tried to drop by when the bank was empty so numerous staff could hit on Master Charles all at once. Down Center, over Merchants Row, up West Street and then over Wales… we’d hit up the fire station and the police station for treats and back scratches.
Friday Night Live: The Short Reign of terror by the heat-seeking food-crazed Dog Missile
I have yet to touch on Charley’s appetite. I had heard from a number of experts that a young hungry lab could eat him/herself into a Hindenburg blimp that bursts into flames on the home front tarmac (or any tarmac for that matter). He is a nose attached to a stomach attached to a dog. The good Doc Scott told me that he was very much in favor of a kibble-only diet of Blue Seal Weight Control dog food. We followed orders and always avoided feeding him off the table. However, Charley had a voracious appetite for human food whenever and wherever the opportunity presented itself.
– Charley gets banned from Friday Night Live after helping himself to pizza and ice cream.
Friday Night Live, the summer eating, drinking and entertainment festival in downtown Rutland for 3,000 residents was exactly that: a large and dangerous opportunity. The outcome here — a front of story reveal — was that by the end of our short visit, good ol’ Charley was issued a lifetime ban to the party.
Not only was his nose twitching, but his whole body was now twitching as well…the combined smells of fried and barbequed foods were sending him into a dither of potential criminal behavior, and then, without any warning, the first encounter occurred, the nuclear missile known as Charles Wallace struck like a Cobra and BAM! he snatched an entire piece of pizza out of the hand of a 12-year-old kid, and “glump” it was chewed and swallowed in two motions. The shocked kid said “Hayyy…that dog ate my pizza!” (Thank God Charley had such a good aim and only got the pizza…) I apologized clumsily, making hasty amends to the parents for the dog, and gave money to the dad for another pizza. When I turned around, Charley was being petted by the victim of the robbery and was looking at me for all the world like a man on death row, occupied by a demon “Ahhhh, I don’ even know what happened, something inside of me took over and it was gone before I knew it.”
When we walked onto the street, I had a feeling that Charley could be very much at risk to his baser instincts in this environment. With many food vendors on the street, the mixed aromas, literally wafted above the heated concrete into an invisible ball of temptation, and with his uber nose power kicking into high gear, I knew we could be in for some trouble: popcorn, pizza, hot dogs, sausage and onions, burgers, and fries all combined in a greasy cloud of torment to drive this Labrador retriever out of his ever-lovin’ mind. Suspiciously, he was avoiding my eyes. Hunkered slightly lower to the ground, and only barely glancing at me, he seemed to be grumbling defensively, “Wha’ er ya givin’ me looks for? I’m good, no problem for me, quit yer mental bellyachin’…”
We were in the “gone before we knew it,” territory for the Godzilla-like monster struck again — twice — before we reached the end of the street! An entire ice cream cone, and one more piece of pizza was devoured by the out of control canine criminal, laid waste to his lesser dopamine. The looks of shock, horror and awe on the faces of the parents are emblazoned on my mind to this day. I tried to sink into the concrete, leaving this beast to whomever had the patience. A “shall remain nameless city official” approached and stopped me as we were attempting to slink away, humiliated and chastened, into the back alley and our getaway car. “Suffice to say,” he said loudly, “it might be best to leave that dog home on future Friday Night Live’s — FOREVER!”
On the ride home, I tried to explain the implications of a rap-sheet, and to explain how lucky we were that his strikes never caught a finger, but with his head out the window, and ears flying sideways he was only attuned to the sights of a warm and wonderful sunset summer evening as we passed through West Rutland, Clarendon Springs, Ira, and Tinmouth on our way home to our comfy beds at 30 Orchard Road.
