When my much-loved mutt Max grew gray in the muzzle and long in the tooth, I adopted Charlie. He was to be what my sister calls the back-up dog. You always need one in place before the primary pooch walks through that valley of the shadow of death.

Charlie is a long-haired dachshund who has an abused background. For fear this might involve stories about ball bats and grappling hooks, or a lengthy explanation as to why he can’t grow hair on his chest, I asked no questions. But he clearly needed better nutrition. PTSD may or may not explain the many deviations in his behavior; whatever the reason, Charlie’s World is a very strange place.

For example, he was completely fascinated by grand nephew Baby Riley, protecting him from all us evil-doers, including Riley’s parents. But now that the boy can chuckle and babble, Charlie’s done with him. In Charlie’s World, if you can chatter, you no longer matter.

Every six weeks or so, Charlie gets confused about housetraining. He whines to be let in to poop. This phase seems to pass after spending a morning cowering under the bed (Charlie, not me). During these bed sieges he manages to tuck his brain back inside his head and he is fine til next time.

Charlie has many toys but can’t figure out what they are for. If you try to play tug o’ war, he simply lets go. If you try to play fetch, he thinks you are throwing things at him. However, he has no difficulty understanding that your favorite slippers are on the lower shoe rack so he can easily remove one in order to rip it to shreds for you. And he knows you will be quite pleased that he can find the single yarn in the bathroom rug that will unravel the whole nine yards.

If you suggest to him that you would rather he not do these things, he repairs to the bed zone to analyze the situation. Then he chews up the other slipper or another rug, having worked it out that you were upset because he didn’t do a thorough job the first time.

Charlie’s greatest love is a used drier sheet. He rubs himself all over; I mean all over. The show only needs a stage with a pole to be more exotic.

His greatest fear is to be parted from you further than his short little legs can jump. Since I office at home, I have allowed this particular paranoia to get out of hand; he is rarely alone. But now, I am traveling more than ever. It’s become a major issue. I really need to find him other digs where the boss stays home. A home that doesn’t own ball bats and grappling hooks.

This is a tall order. Regardless of what the Dog Whisperer says, some dogs can never completely recover from their pasts. You can’t love them into mental health. So this little fellow will never be an easy keeper.

In Charlie’s World, there’s already been enough fear for a lifetime. And I might be letting it happen to him all over again if I give him away. Things feel very guilty today, here on the back nine.