Think about it. Here I am, the last free American Man. A tragic folk hero in the vein of Edward Abbey and Jack Kerouac and John Henry. I drive an old, overpowered pickup that I built myself. I drink straight whiskey, smoke cigars, hunt, fish, shoot guns, drink beer, and sleep outside without a tent. Don't think of this as bragging, it's just the way things are. To balance it all, I am loyal and helpful.... much like a dog without all the drool (though I have humped a few legs in my day).
So, when my friend Alaina mentioned that someone would need to watch her dog, I volunteered. I had to, it's what heroes (tragic or otherwise) do.
I met Jack. He's tall for a Pomeranian, and seems smart. He has had some training, and understands three commands ("sit," "stay," and "gimmie a paw"). He is sweet and housebroken. He is a chick-magnet.
All in all, I figured it would be fun to have a little friend for a while. A little reordering of my life, and it would be like a game.
Man was I misguided.
I have reordered my life quite a bit. Jack won't let me oversleep. He needs food and so on and I have to give it to him. I take him with me everywhere I can. I walk him twice a day. He curls up in my lap at random, and likes to steer the car, though he is too short to reach the pedals.
So, I guess he is fun. What I didn't count on, and what is going to be a problem later, is that I really like him. He's fun to have around.
So I guess I can make peace with people instantly referring to him as "she" just because he's cute. The ladies like him, and he isn't a bad companion. We already went on a trip and we had fun.
A little contradiction keeps things interesting.... right?
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