Eleven year old Charley is usually my serious girl - the fun police, the tattler, who comes running to me whenever any of the others are doing anything they shouldn't be doing. She's the one who lets me know if the cat has slipped out or a sheltie needs to go pee or someone is roaming where they are not supposed to roam. She comes to the side of my bed to wake me in the morning as soon as Belle stumbles out of bed (Princess Belle believes in getting up at the crack of dawn), and she watches through the bedroom window to make sure neighbours stay where they belong and intruders don't open our gate.
But every now and then, her inner pup s q u e e z e s past the serious side of her, and that is when she play bows to her siblings and chases them around the pasture, or dances around my feet and tries to herd me to the cookie jar, or rolls in the grass or the alpaca poop in sheer ecstasy.
Last night, her inner pup had her playing "cute, coy puppy" on the couch. And so, here for your entertainment, is Charley Girl, in a moment of gay abandon: