Meet my dog-child, Charlie “Chaplin” Musselman.  He is a mix between a long- and wire-haired miniature dachshund.  On September 10th, 2011, he will finally be two years old (and no longer a puppy).  I adopted him when he was eight months old, and now that I think about it, it is crazy to think how long we’ve been together.  He is spoiled rotten with belly rubs, naps on my lap, car rides, chicken-flavored bones, and the companionship of three other dachshunds whenever we are visiting my parents in Logansport.

Charlie “Chaplin”, you say?  I did not decide on his middle name until earlier this year.  He is certainly a prankster and never fails to make me laugh, so I thought the name was fitting.  Never have I seen a dog so entertained by his wagging tail or by running laps around my tiny apartment.  The funniest (and also worst) thing he did is something I’ll never forget.  One morning, he ran straight to the stairs, which is typical of his routine when I let him out of his cage.  Usually he will run right back to me, but this time his front legs got a little too close and he tumbled all the way down that stairs.

It was an awful sound and I was sure he was hurt, but he looked up at me from the bottom step, wagging his tail and sticking his tongue out like he had just won a weiner dog race.  At that moment in time, it was a frightening experience induced with panic, but now I can look back and laugh about how ridiculous it was.  Just like the real Charlie Chaplin, my dog has mastered physical comedy.

(And no, he did not learn his lesson.)