Worth the read......

Just had too share...A day in the life of a "Shorty Jack" puppy sitter! Thanks Eric for sharing your Moms story with me...........

Hello Diana, I thought you might get a kick out of my Mom's description of her day with Baguette. We are in Malaysia right now for a wedding so she has him for the week at our place.

Things I remember about yesterday:

BaguetteThe way Baguette plops himself down after I place his service dog bib around him. He refuses to even walk so that he appears to be an invalid. People stare, overcome by his cuteness, and then wonder why he sits there so inert. One man, about 65, says, “He’s such a well-behaved dog.” I agree with him. We’re on Market St. and 8th, waiting for the 21 bus, which will arrive in 6 minutes. A black shiny car filled with young passengers bobbing their heads to the rap music stops in front of us for the red light. The driver moves his body with the music and looks like he’s riding a bronco. When they drive off, they wave to us. I wave back. The lady on my right, about 65, the man’s wife, I think, looks at me. Her eyes look sad. “That’s a nice dog you have,” she says. A dark skinned man sits next to me. He looks at Baguette. “What kind of dog is that?” I tell him. He tells me he has cats. They are so easy to take care of. He can’t take his eyes off of Baguette. “He kind of reminds me of a beagle,” he says. I tell him they have similar colorings but that Baguette is an Irish Russell Terrier. He’s an outgoing man I can tell. His bus comes. “Nice talking to you,” he says. He heads for his bus.

The 21 bus arrives. I grab Baguette in my arms and carry him on, then place him on the floor. I hear people whisper, what a cute dog. Look at the dog. I swipe my Translink card and get the first seat next to the door. Baguette sits very still and composed. All eyes are on him. Then he gets comfortable and begins sniffing the toes of the man sitting next to me. A young guy who slips his feet back. “Sorry about that,” I say to him. “That’s okay. Is your dog in training for something?” I tell him he is not and turn away. I don’t want to have to explain why Baguette has a “Service Dog” bib on when there is nothing wrong with me.

We reach our stop and I carry Baguette to the sidewalk where he immediately plops himself down and refuses to walk with that ridiculous bib on. He looks humiliated, ears down, head down, as if he’s done something wrong. As soon as I remove the bib, though, he springs to his feet and practically sprints to the first tree he sees--not to pee--but to sniff around at who has preceded him. We walk past Eric’s old apartment and, as if Baguette knows that Eric once lived there, he pulls me towards the entrance of the complex. I have to use all my force to pull him away.

We walk about five blocks then cross the street and head back. I stop to ask a man if there is a place nearby that serves really good ice cream. He tells me there’s a place on Linden Street and he points. “You’ll cross that park in the middle of the street,” he says, “then keep going and it’s on your left.” “Terrific ice cream.” As we make our way there, we are in the park area. A huge greyhound catches Baguette’s attention. He’s four times Baguette’s size. Baguette goes up to him and they start sniffing one another. The greyhound’s owners fall in love with Baguette. Their Jack Russell died several weeks ago and Baguette reminds them of him. The greyhound is very nice. He’s a four year old, tall, and thin as a reed. I notice the couple is eating ice cream which reminds me, that’s what I want. We say our farewells and right across the street is “Smitten” the ice cream shack. I guess they make the ice cream there. I order a chai ice cream and though it is lacking in the chai flavor, it is rich and delicious nonetheless. They make their own cones there too, and I notice Baguette scooping up the crumbs of my cone with his tongue. One girl comes over to pet Baguette. “How old is your dog?” she asks. I tell her he’s 8 months old. She runs back to her mother and says, “That dog is the same age as me.” Her mother laughs. “No, honey. The dog is 8 months old, not 8 years old.” The little girl blushes and starts laughing.

A man in his thirties comes over to pet Baguette. He settles down on his haunches to pet him the way men pet dogs so that the skin on the dogs back ruffles forward then back, forward then back. Baguette loves it. His tail wags out of control.

We head back to the bus stop, past the Blue Bottle coffee place that I promise to return to without Baguette on another day.

We head to the bus stop to catch the 21 back to Market Street and 8th. There is a Hispanic man standing there waiting. He checks his watch. “Waiting long?” I ask. He looks at me then notices Baguette. “Cute dog,” he says. He says that the bus is late. On the weekends they come every 20 minutes and in rush hour they come every 10 minutes. We watch a pigeon land nearby. “I used to own a parrot a couple of years ago. See where that man is standing?” He points to a man across the street on the corner. “I had the parrot on my shoulder and all of a sudden it flew off my shoulder to where that man is standing. All I could think is, SHIT. There goes $1,000 down the drain.” I ask him if the parrot flew back to him. “No,” he says. “He flew down to the sidewalk and stayed there until I got him.” I tell him he’s lucky. He tells me, not really. He says that his parrot grew so attached to his roommate that after a while, the parrot wouldn’t have anything to do with him, only his roommate, and would even try to bite him when he tried to approach him. “I bet it’s the first time you ever heard of a man being jealous over a roommate stealing the love of his parrot.” I laugh, but then I say, “That’s sad.”

At home, Baguette grabs a toy and starts gnawing on it. I get on my laptop to write and Baguette stops with the toy and begins to whimper at my side. I check the clock. It’s not time for a potty run. I ask him what’s up, as if he will respond. I ask again and again, but all he does is stare at me with his eyes so intent on me he could hypnotize me into doing anything. I repeat, what’s up? Whimper, whimper. I can’t write with that going on. I take him down for a potty run. Outside, he goes to his usual spot but does nothing but sniff. I take him to the trees on Mission Street. Sniff, sniff, nothing else.

In the lobby of the condo he runs like hell towards the desk clerk, waiting for his treats. The guy is talking to another clerk and he grabs a fist full of treats and places it on the ground and continues talking to the clerk. I pick of the treats and take them with me. In the elevator Baguette looks at me. I have him give me his paw. Dance. I shoot him, bang, bang. He does it all for his treats.

Back at the condo, Baguette continues with his whimpering as soon as I get on my laptop. I shut it down, surrender. Baguette wins. We sit down to watch a film called Bingo --about a dog. I can’t believe how intently Baguette watches the screen as soon as the dogs are on. So there we are, dog and woman, watching a dog movie together as if we do this every weekend.