Throwing Down the Gauntlet

Often, when I'm in the kitchen working, I'll be at the kitchen sink, kind of daydreaming out the window, when I hear a SMACK behind me! The sound of a ball being dropped on the floor, a gauntlet literally and figuratively thrown at my feet.

I know that when I turn, Charlie will be looking at me with an expectant look and a twinkle in his eye. And I'll have two real options, neither of which involves ignoring him, because Charlie will not be ignored.

Trying to ignore Charlie is like trying to ignore a hurricane -- a pogo-sticking, face-licking, ear-nipping hurricane. You can try, if you feel like dog wrestling. No, the better course of action is to turn, crouching, and say in a firm growl... "I'm gonna get that dog!"

And so begins the game, "Chase Charlie."

He grabs the ball, runs back to the dining room doorway, and turns to face me.

My role is to feint; to jump toward him as if to snatch the ball out of his mouth.

Charlie's role, in turn, is to run around to the other end of the kitchen, racing like a madman, where he knows I'll be waiting to "surprise" him.

And back and forth we go, feinting and racing, racing and feinting.

Kind of a silly little game, really. But one played almost every day in this household; usually more than once.