Take, for instance, last night. I was in my pajamas and it was raining winter, so I pulled on my Uggs and giant puffy jacket. I then reached for my keys, my phone, and doggy bags. Yes, doggy bags. They're blue. I crammed everything into my pockets. Then I strap Jab's into his harness, attach the leash and set out the front door.
We ride the elevator down to the first floor. (Just 2 days prior, I had ridden the elevator down with a nanny and 2 little boys. One of the little boys was screeeeaming because he was afraid of the little ball of preciousness at the end of my leash. Finally, after patiently smiling trying to convince the little boy that Jaberwalkie wasn't going to bite, I lean down and say "You know hun, the dog will bite if you continue to scream." Thankfully, we reached the first floor before we had the chance to find out. Funny thing is, I like children. These particular children wear on my last nerve, though.)
Anyways, we walk outside, where Jab's sets our walking pace. We round the corner, and stop at the left over pile of snow from last week. He sniffs. I watch. We move on. We walk down the street. We encounter a little old lady with a little old dog. "Oh my goodness, what a precious dog! How old is he!? What is his name!?", she says. I reply, "Thank you! His name is Jabu. I'm dog sitting. Not sure how old he is." My dog is clearly cuter than hers. So I feel obligated to ask how old her dog is, and what his name is. I drag little Jab's away from the old man dog and keep walking. These run ins happen often. We continue walking. Jabs does what he needs to do. 6 blocks later, we are back at my apartment emptying our pockets and shedding our winter wear. Oh the days of suburbia, when I'd (well, actually my dad) would say "Ok, Sally, I'll just open the side door and you can help yourself to the yard. Talk to you in a few minutes!"
What a process. I love little Jabs, but I'll be just fine once he leaves.
Oh, and roommate Emily wrote the most adorable post about him. You should probably read it.