Charlie, like all Jack Russells, had no sense of her small size; she’d attack just about any dog on sight, and it almost cost her life on two occasions. Other than that, she was a smart, loving dog that really loved to go fishing. A whisper of the word or a move toward a rod would send her into a spasm of leaps, yelps and howls that could wake the dead. She’d hit the front door running and wouldn’t stop until we got back home. In her later years, I had her up in Destin, Florida, over Easter break, and I took her out fishing with Capt. Pat Dineen, looking for some early cobia on the beach. Charlie hit the boat with her usual enthusiasm, but soon the chilly temps and cold water got to her old bones, and it was clear she wasn’t liking the trip. When we got back to the dock, she sprinted off the boat toward the truck and wouldn’t come back. It was one of the first times she didn’t come to me when I called her. She was pushing 14 years old at the time, so I figured it would be her last trip, and it was; she died in my arms the next spring.