Charlie

A memory from long ago and far away.

“Bee-yah, Charlie! Zud bash!” my mother called in Farsi to my pet Persian lamb. “Come on, Charlie! Move it!”

Charlie had been distracted on our late afternoon walk and was munching on a camel-thorn bush. Snapping his head to attention and seeing that we were several yards ahead of him, he sprang excitedly toward us, his four spindly legs stiff as he bounced across the dry desert earth like a cartoon sheep.

We had moved to southwestern Iran from south Texas when my father, then city manager of Corpus Christi, accepted a job as general manager for an American consulting firm and their client, the Shah. I was eleven and had just entered the 6^th grade.  After moving into our house on the bank of the Karun River south of the town of Ahwaz, our driver, Kasim, drove me to the small building in town that served as the school for the children of the company’s employees. There were three teachers and fewer than 20 pupils ranging in age from 6 to 13 in grades 1 to 7. The teachers were Presbyterian missionaries from England and Scotland. By the time we left two years later, my Texas drawl had turned into a British accent.  

One day, a small boy walked by the school carrying a lamb. Miss Simmons, the teacher of the youngest students, asked the boy if he would like to sell the lamb to her. After an exchange of a few rials worth less than $5.00, the school adopted the little black lamb with the white puff of fur on its round tail. Miss Simmons became its mother. It followed her wherever she went inside and out, bleating for a bottle when hungry and sometimes just to make his presence known.

A contest was announced to choose a name for the lamb. The father of two of my fellow students was an agriculture expert responsible for the sugar cane planation and other test farms that were part of the company’s economic development program for the government. His special expertise was fertilizer.  So was the lamb’s. Thus the lamb was named after a fellow fertilizer expert -- Charlie.  Every evening he went home with Miss Simmons and every morning he came to school with her. He had the run of the small enclosed courtyard outside the classrooms. Charlie was not yet weaned so a feeding schedule was established with the children taking turns holding the bottle while Charlie held his head up and pushed against the rubber nipple.

A few weeks later, the school was moved to the community center that had been built for the employees and their families several miles south of town where we lived.  Eight houses were built next to the riverbank with the community center, or “the guesthouse” as we called it, situated in the middle of the houses with four on the north side and four on the south. Other homes for families and a few two-story apartments for unmarried workers, including our teachers, were built on the other side of the roughly paved road. All were made by hand by men who seemed to always be covered in dried mud and carrying hods of sundried bricks on their heads as they scrambled up wooden ladders. Pits of mud mixed with straw were beside every house as it was being built. The mud was slapped onto the bricks as mortar and swabbed across the flat roof to harden in the sun.

One dark Halloween night, dressed as a Persian maiden in a costume handmade by our Armenian French teacher, Mrs. Khachaturian, I accidentally stepped in one of the mud pits as I cut between two houses with a friend. The mud sucked the shoe off the foot that was mired in the muck as I tried to pull free. I never found that shoe and limped home to change into another pair.

A restaurant on the first floor of the guesthouse doubled as a meeting room when needed and, on occasion, as a theater for plays put on by members of our community.  Sliding glass doors led out to the swimming pool.  A wide staircase led to the second floor where our three classrooms were located.  Three other rooms were made into guest rooms for visiting dignitaries. Charlie was given the run of the balcony that ran along the outside of the classrooms and the guest rooms.  

A large packing crate that had been used to move our belongings by sea freight to our new desert home, was lined with straw and put on the balcony. Charlie was getting too big to go home to the small apartment of Miss Simmons every night and so, after his last bottle feeding, he would follow Miss Simmons down the staircase and out the front door of the guest house for an evening stroll before going up the stairs and being lifted into the crate for the night. The lid of the crate was moved into position with a crack to allow fresh air to circulate during the cool desert night.

One of the problems with this routine was Charlie’s need to demonstrate his expertise in distributing pellets of fertilizer as he walked down the curved staircase for his evening and weekend walks. On several occasions, a visitor staying in one of the guestrooms would see one of the staff quickly sweeping up after Charlie as he pranced out the door into the warm desert air for a gambol with me, his new self-appointed keeper.

I was becoming attached to Charlie and began to take on the responsibility for his feedings and exercise routine. He was a Karakul sheep, the common type of sheep in that part of the Middle East. Karakuls are especially adaptable to the desert due to their ability to store fat in their tails in order to survive severe drought conditions.  As he grew, Charlie’s round tail also began to grow as it filled with fat. I learned that by following on his heels and holding his tail close to his body as he clip-clopped down the stairs, I could hold the pellets against his tail until we got outside where I could release his tail and let them fall to the ground. It wasn’t perfect but it did help with the cleanup problem. There was no way to housetrain a sheep, especially Charlie who was beginning to show signs of entitlement.

Christmas was approaching and the teachers were planning to return home to England for the long school holiday.  No one would be around to take care of Charlie.  One day Miss Simmons came home with me and asked my mother if Charlie could come to live with us during the recess. My mother agreed with one condition. Charlie had to be weaned off the bottle. “I’m not going to feed that silly lamb with a bottle every three hours!” she announced. Charlie was not happy with this new development but, after a day or two of no bottle, he finally gave in and learned to munch on the grass that our gardener, Ahmed, had planted and cultivated in the front yard of our house. Where my mother got the sod I do not know, but Charlie was much better fed than the flocks of sheep that were tended by shepherds from neighboring villages and had to find sustenance in the sparse, dry vegetation and cracked earth.

Charlie’s crate was moved to the front yard next to the wall that ran parallel to the river. Turned on its side, a door was made from the lid with a wire screen added for ventilation. Every few days, Ahmed, a small, wiry old man, would crawl into the box, sweep out the old straw and strew fresh straw for Charlie to sleep on at night. Jackals patrolled the desert after dark and it was important to keep Charlie safe. To protect him from the heat of the day, four poles were stuck into the ground and a straw mat tied to the top to form a canopy for shade. We called it Charlie’s Cabana on the Karun.

When everyone returned from the holiday, Miss Simmons decided that Charlie was too big to return to the balcony. I pleaded with my mother to let me keep him. Truth be told, she had become attached to him, too. And thus it was that Charlie came to live with us as he continued to grow. And grow. And grow.

Small nubs appeared above his ears. Horns! As they sprouted, they began to curl. One day Charlie and I were playing together on the front lawn. I sat on a sack of grain next to his crate and he began to push against my hands. At first, it was a game but before long, he realized that he could back up, run toward me, head down, and give me a good butting.  The next time we went for an evening stroll with my mother, Charlie responded to my mother’s command, “Bee-yah, Charlie! Zud bash!” by lining her up. She watched as he put his head down and headed straight for her. But just before he got to her, she stepped aside and he whizzed past. Suddenly realizing that something was amiss, he stopped, turned and looked puzzled as if to say, “Where did you go?” They played this game over and over every time we went for a walk. He never did butt her, but he thrilled at getting another chance and always looked surprised not to hit his mark.

My mother was an excellent gardener and ordered seeds from the United States. Working side-by-side with Ahmed, she planted a row of corn that provided us with steamed cobs for New Year’s Eve dinner, a trellis of pink and lavender and blue sweet peas that ended up in bouquets my mother offered to the chador-clad women who walked down the road and peered into the garden, plus snapdragons and zinnias, impatiens and roses and pansies. In between the flowerbeds were small plots of vegetables from beans and tomatoes to squash and lettuce and radishes. Even in the dry desert heat and cracked earth, the small, wizened Ahmed and my mother created an oasis that was admired by everyone.

One day, Ahmed was on his knees bent over in the garden weeding one of the flowerbeds. Charlie was roaming around the garden, trying to grab a mouthful of this or that when Ahmed wasn’t looking. Then he saw another opportunity to use his newfound talent. Line Ahmed up. Head down. Paw the ground once twice. Take off. Contact! Ahmed went sprawling. Charlie, looking all too pleased with himself, trotted off. The next day Ahmed brought two small brass bells that he tied around Charlie’s neck on a string. No one was surprised by a Charlie attack again. I still have those bells.

An immense swarm of locust appeared and blackened the sky one day. We raced outside and pushed Charlie into his box before running back to the house to close the windows and doors. The noise of their wings was deafening as they ate every bit of vegetation before rising up and flying on into the desert. Charlie’s bleats melded with their cacophony.  When all was calm again I went out and sat with him, stroking his fur. The soft, black, tightly curled wool of his youth was beginning to straighten, become coarser and show streaks of brown from the strong, bleaching sun.

It was time to shear Charlie of his heavy winter coat. My mother asked one of the men who guarded the community to recommend someone who could do the honors. A date was arranged and a man from the nearby village arrived with a pair of crude shears on the appointed day. My mother proclaimed the shears “so dull you could ride to town on them.” Two steel blades were connected loosely at the top with a wood plug. Our teachers brought all the students to watch the shearing on our front porch.

 

Being surrounded by a bunch of ogling adults and kids while a strange man hoisted him onto the porch was not Charlie’s idea of fun. He put on the brakes, legs stiff, refusing to budge. I held his head in an attempt to reassure him while the man straddled him and flopped Charlie onto his side. Quickly snipping the wool away from Charlie’s body with the blunt shears, it took about 20 minutes to finish the job. Charlie got up and wobbled off, his dignity clearly beyond repair. The man then took out a handmade spindle and showed everyone how the wool was spun into yarn. Several balls of Charlie’s coarse wool were given to me that day. Many years later when I took up weaving, I wove the yarn into a large scarf that I still wear today to warm my shoulders on cold winter days. It’s scratchy…but it’s Charlie.

Charlie was known to walk into the house when the door was left open and look around, often depositing his calling-card pellets as he poked his nose into things.  My mother would shoo him out and close the door or take him by one horn like an errant child, lead him to his Cabana by the Karun, and tie him to his stake. Not happy with this turn of events, Charlie leaned against the rope, making half circles as he baa-ed and baa-ed and baa-ed with frustration. I baa-ed back in solidarity from the window of my room while doing my homework.

Charlie and I often used the long, open porch that ran the length of the house as a racecourse. I would stand in the gravel driveway that ran below the porch while Charlie walked up the steps and stood there looking at me. “Bee-yah, Charlie! Zud bash!” I would shout and begin running down the length of the porch. Charlie would stiffen his legs and begin bouncing and springing after me. At the end, we would turn around and race to the other end. The spectacle of Charlie’s bouncing, stiff-legged running and the happy twists and turns of his gamboling gait sent us into gales of laughter. Charlie loved the attention.

Summer arrived and it was time for vacation. My parents decided that we would go to Europe for a month. But who would take care of Charlie while we were gone?

A team of security guards patrolled the housing development where we lived among other employees of the company that my father managed. The guards lived in local villages nearby and we got to know them and their families. My mother asked Mohammed, one of the men who was often on patrol around our part of the neighborhood, if he knew of anyone who could take care of Charlie. He agreed immediately to take Charlie into his care for the month.

The day came when Charlie was to be sent to the village which was a mile or more away. My mother and I started off down the road with Charlie bringing up the rear and stopping now and then to examine a clump of camel-thorn or other tasty treat. The man who had been sent to collect Charlie rode along with us atop his donkey. Sitting sideways, his toes turned upward to keep his slip-on shoes secure, the man swayed with the donkey’s slow pace. After a few minutes, my mother declared that she wasn’t going to walk all the way to the village. Charlie would need to follow the man on the donkey.

We turned and started to leave as the man put a rope around Charlie’s neck. Charlie put on the brakes and dug his hooves into the parched desert dirt. We returned to Charlie and he again trotted behind without a fuss. But my mother was clearly not going to walk all the way to the village, so we again turned and started back home. Charlie put on the brakes again and bawled loudly. My mother told me to not respond to his cries. But when I turned around, I saw that the man had lifted Charlie onto the back of the donkey, head on one side, tail on the other. Charlie looked startled. I waved and off he went with the man and his donkey, the very picture of indignity. He had once again been duped into something he did not want to do.

When we returned from vacation, my mother made the decision that Charlie was getting too big to keep as a pet. Mohammed asked if he could be sent to another village many miles north where his brother had a flock of sheep. Charlie would make beautiful lambs, he said, with the ewes. After all, Charlie was fatter and healthier after growing up eating sweet grass rather than the meager desert vegetation. And so it was with great reluctance that I agreed to let Charlie go to a place where he could lead a good life among a harem of his own.

But before he was sent away, we were invited to the village for a wedding celebration. The security guard was getting married and his father, the village chief, sent a special invitation for my parents and me to join them.

When we arrived in the village, we were met by Mohammed who took us to his family’s home. There in the enclosed courtyard was Charlie. And he was tied to the #1 stake! The donkey was in the #2 position. Clearly Charlie had status in the courtyard and was prized by the family.

Charlie looked up, startled to see his “sister” and “mother” who must have come to rescue him. It was a great reunion with lots of baa-ing back and forth, laughter and a few tears.  But the time finally came to leave. We heard his bawling as we walked down the dirt path to the village center toward the wedding celebration, taking comfort in the knowledge that he would be well taken care of for the rest of his life with many marriages of his own to look forward to.