She's been at the pound since February so she wasn't very interested in me the first time I saw her. But I stopped in again today and she was a lot more fun.
By the end of a half hour, I had her coming to me and sitting and patiently playing a game with me that involved her jumping up onto the picnic table, dropping the ball onto the ground then leaping down to the table's seat, then to the gravel where she'd come up to me, sit and I'd throw her the ball. She'd catch it and jump back up on the table.
She looks kind of like this except a little taller and a little bigger because she's got something else mixed in with the French Bull Dog:
Basically, she's a bearish, bowlegged darlin' and I want her, to have and to hold, in the good times and the bad. So I've handed the decision over the Church War Council that manages my apartment. If they say "yes, pets allowed", then chances are I'll seriously consider adopting Baby (as she's currently called... that name won't last long if I get a hold of her). It's a weird decision and not one I was really expecting to make until I was 50, but dog ownernship has become increasingly attractive over the last year and I think Baby would be a good fit.
She's smart, trainable, healthy and four years old, young enough to be worthwhile for hikes and walks but old enough that I won't be owning her forever. I'm not interested in puppies and 20 years of dogdom, thanks. I'm also not interested in problem dogs. I don't need to prove that I can love things. Nor do I really feel like saving anything. You will not see me buying the one-eyed, deaf dog with stomach cancer, abandonment issues, scabbies and chronic intestinal disorders who's next on the docket for the bone machine unless some one adopts it. Nope. Sorry. Go ahead and turn it into glue.
Except for you, Baby. Nobody better turn you into glue.
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