Wednesday, November 26, 2008
I moved 3 weeks ago. Not only did I manage to move into a place that actually feels like home, but I also inherited a dog. He belongs to a guy down the street that doesn't seem to look after him at all well. That being said he's a healthy, happy fella and I love havin him around.
One of the conditions of my getting the lease on this place was that I would look after the dog. The owner of the house I'm renting, let's call her Jane because that is in fact her name, had been taking care of him for the last year or so. When I came to look at the place - right now I should point out that when I moved, I moved two doors up the street... really... used to live at #23, now live at #19... but I digress - when I came to look at the place, bottle of good Sav Blanc in hand she made it clear that as long as I would look after the mutt I could live in her house.
Given that I love dogs it was not a stretch to promise that I'd throw things, put water in things, ladle food into things and generally become a de facto dog owner.
Meet Jack. The Golden Retriever that doesn't retrieve but sure does like having his belly scratched. Mind you, so do I.