"PRINCE CHARLES" A SHORT STORY

PRINCE CHARLES

"What the hell were you thinking?" I cried incredulously. Mary looked at me and shrugged. At that moment, it streaked past us with lightning speed.

"I really didn't think he'd run," Mary feebly attempted to explain. In her right hand she held an empty leash. "He's a goddamn greyhound! What the shit did you think he'd do?" She couldn't provide an answer. Just then, our attention was diverted back to the black bullet circling the back of our property. If only it would aim and target the deck on which we were standing. But, no such luck.

"You know he's so timid. He's afraid of his own shadow. I never imagined he would bolt," Mary reasoned. "He's a greyhound!" I repeated in a shrill tone, "Not one of our decrepit crippled dogs." "Well what do we do now? How are we going to catch him, Cherie?" "I have no earthly idea. At least, you could have decided to let him enjoy some freedom when it was light outside. But, oh no, you pick the dead of night," I snapped, "What the hell were you thinking, woman?"

Whoosh! He zoomed past us and had it not been we were so absorbed in devising his capture, we would have marveled at the agility and speed of this magnificent animal.

"Well chasing him is out of the question. These tired old legs can't keep up with our geriatric mutts," I began, "We have to come up with another way to get him." Just watching him do the Indy 500 around the yard was wearing me out. "Maybe he'll get tired and," Mary started to say, but the look on my face cut her short. "Think damnit," I ordered, "He looks like he is getting even faster out there. Think!"

I was introduced to Charlie the first day he arrived from the greyhound rescue shelter and moved in with his adopted family. He was so skinny and frail. The injuries inflicted during his brief time on the racing circuit had left lasting scars both physically and emotionally. He was skittish and fearful of any sudden move or sound. He cowered and shook uncontrollably. It would be a challenge to get close to him and gain his trust, but his new owners and I agreed it was well worth the effort.

Charlie had been sentenced to certain death because he didn't clock in fast enough at the track. He was cruelly whipped and starved all to get him to go after that mechanical rabbit and make money for the greedy individuals in charge. But, he had, finally, succeeded in beating the odds. And, unlike many of his fellow slowpokes, his life was spared and he was given a second chance.

With time and our constant attention, Charlie began to accustom himself to his new surroundings and those who cared for him. His Mom, a writer, his Dad, a lawyer, and me, his dog walker, slowly got him to risk. He began to bond with us and his home on Manhattan's Upper Westside.

Soon he was prancing down Broadway with the best of the puppy pack. He was a handsome boy and was admired by all who encountered him. He had put on weight. His hair had grown back. He, obviously, was healing in both body and spirit.

Now, his parents and auntie felt compelled to compensate for all he had endured and sometimes we may have gone overboard. Who am I kidding? We spoiled him rotten. We treated him like royalty. Charlie had full reign over the house. He parked himself on the damask couch. Drooled on the embroidered upholstery of antique chairs, not to mention, using their legs as chews. He didn't have a doggie pad to sleep on, but his own single bed. That is, when he wasn't sprawled out with his parents in theirs.

No dog in New York City had a better wardrobe than Charlie. He had more clothes, in fact, than many humans. He donned the most fashionable of coats, hooded sweatshirts, and rain gear. His Mom and I would just shake our heads when Daddy showed up with still another outfit for his precious four-legged son to wear. The hound holocaust, he endured in his early years, was no longer apparent when he regally took his walks in his finery. He commanded respect, if only by the way he dressed. This emperor had clothes.

Prince Charles was raised in an Orthodox Jewish household. Although, his Mom was a Reformed Jew, she kept a kosher kitchen for her husband. When Passover would come around bags of dog food and treats were left outside the door of his apartment. Not being of the faith, I never really understood what Hebrew law eating Iams violated. And, there was no answer in the Talmud, since the holy book didn't have a section on pet care. So, I took the religiously unacceptable foods and gathered up my canine charges for a party. My Christian clients didn't care one iota what law of worship was being broken. All that mattered was the grand feast they were having thanks to Charlie. He didn't suffer during his owners' fasts either. Because, unbeknownst to them, he'd be back at my place, along with the other dogs, sharing the sinful stuff. Not to mention, God forbid, an occasional pork chop or piece of ham. He might bark Yiddish when he was with his parents, but at my house he was one gentile greyhound.

"That's it. I've got it," I said happily to Mary, "Why didn't I think of this before?" "What? What?" she questioned with anticipation. "Just go fry up some bacon and make it quick," I ordered. She ran into the house, as Charlie ran past for the hundredth time.

Armed with crisp, smoky strips, we went to the car and turned the engine and high beams on. We flung open all the doors and, patiently, waited as the aroma of our trap lured the elusive sprinter near. In a New York minute he showed up. Prince Charles shut his jettisons down and came in for a pit stop and, possible ride. He jumped into the back seat, the finish line and looked toward the sizzling trophy. We gambled and won. And although, he never ever caught the damn rabbit in all the times he tried, he got hold of a pig that night, a whole pound in fact. He ran a good race and came out the winner. Our varicose veined gams came in a close second. The sweet smell of victory was pork and we all relished its taste.