I thought I might share this picture of the Newfoundland dog we used to have. When we bought him, he was just a black ball of fur. The whole family fell in love with him. I told my boys, who were 14, 15, and 16 at the time, that they could name him. They kicked around a few choices like Inky and Midnight; finally I said, "You really should name him after something big and black." My oldest, a basketball fan made the choice: Charlie Barkley!
Barkley grew, and he grew, and he grew to a full grown weight of 216 pounds of cuddly, drooling, perpetual puppy! I say perpetual puppy, because he still wanted to be a lap dog as an adult and was basicallly a big baby. Oh, he talked a good game. Our town had a leash law, so when he was outside, his collar was attached to a strong chain. When the oil man would come to fill our oil tank, Barkley would protect his territory; he would bark and bark, yanking on that chain until the poor oil deliveryman was shaking in his boots. One day I took pity on the poor man and said, "You know, the dog is harmless."
"He doesn't bite?" When I shook my head, the man asked, "What's his name?"
"Barkley," I responded. The whole time Barkley was still growling and yanking at that chain.
"Hello, Barkley," the man said, as he approached the huge dog. Charlie B. stopped mid-bark, and ran and hid under the deck! His bark was much worse than his bite.