The wife and I have lived in our two-story home for the past 35 years. The first 33 years of negotiating the stairway to the second floor had never been an issue as we have always been nimble, active people who take their physical health very seriously. But for the past two years, taking the stairs up or down has become a real challenge.

The reason for our difficulty has nothing to do with our two legs, but instead is caused by our four-legged companion, a 50-pound shepherd mix named Charlie. For some odd reason the stairway is a racetrack for him and no one in the household is going to get either up or down before he does.

“Honey,” I said to the wife at the supper table, “what are we going to do about Charlie? This afternoon I was going downstairs and Charlie waited until I was halfway down and leapt into the air, waving at me as he passed by and landed three-quarters of the way down the stairs. He then proceeded to crash into the front door.”

“How cute is that?” the wife said. “He’s competitive, just like me.”

“I’ve never seen you throw yourself down a flight of stairs before, just to beat me to the morning coffee pot.”

“I would if there were donuts involved.”

“What is going through his mind when he does that?” I said.

It is at this point that we begin the slow-motion dream sequence:

Charlie sees dad about to descend the staircase and thinks, “I am Superdog. I am faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive. Able to leap short daddies in a single bound. I‘m a bird. I’m a plane. I’m Superdog. I must beat dad down the stairs so that I am ready for any meals or treats he is about to give me. (Crashes into the front door.)

“Charlie,” (end dream sequence) I yelled. “You are going to kill one of us. Stairs were created as a means of safe transport of human beings from one level to another. They are not meant for a flying canine with a super hero complex.”

“Honey,” the wife said, “I really don’t think he understands you. You need to be smarter than the dog.”

“OK,” I said, “that’s going to be a problem. This pooch can read my every move even before I make it. Yesterday I was thinking about opening a bag of cheese curls and having a Coke. Boom. There he was with a can of pop, the bag of cheese curls, and a moist towelette for sticky fingers. How does he do that?”

“He’s highly intelligent and knows that by preparing your snack, he will probably get some too,” the wife said.

“Does he do anything like that for you?”

“A couple of days ago I was in the bedroom and he walked in with a skillet and a pound of bacon.”

“What did he want?” I asked.

“You’re right; he is smarter than you.”

Raul Ascunce is a freelance columnist for the Sentinel-Tribune. He may be contacted at [email protected].