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With the recent addition, we're slowly being forced to implement our "get of the house and get some exercise" plan with a little more regularity. Gus (that's short for "Augustus") has a seemingly endless supply of energy, and long walks are about the only way we can come up with to expend that energy somewhere other than herding the cats. Yesterday afternoon, January and Gus stopped by my office so we could all walk back home together. This is a walk I take every day, but taking the walk with an energetic puppy tethered to your arm turns it into something quite different. Typically, the walk involves plugging into my ipod, selecting some weather / mood appropriate walking music, and ignoring everyone I pass while they reciprocate in kind. But when you have a little ball of furr walking beside you, apparently everyone feels that it is their duty to stop and pet the little guy and ask him very confusing questions such as "aren't you a cutie?" It's a good thing Gus can't talk, because I'm sure he wouldn't really know the right way to answer that question. Instead, he just tries to chew on their shoes, which seems to satisfy all parties involved. After a handful of such encounters, as we were rounding the corner to head up our street, we could see an older, grey haired woman picking up trash from the sidewalk. When I see a woman like this, I tend to mentally pigeonhole them in with the stereotypical Sweet Grandma type. I imagine her spending her retirement years sitting on her front porch, catching up with neighbors, baking cookies for her grandchildren, and maybe if she is one of those hip new technology-savvy grandmas, scouring eBay for Precious Moments figurines to complete her collection. Based on this mental image I had created, I prepared for the inevitable moment where we would have to stop so she could pet Gus, ask him how cute he is, and regale us with stories about a dog that she used to have that looked just like him. Instead, as we came within earshot, we had the pleasure of overhearing this gem, spoken to the gentleman helping her clean up the sidewalks: "You don't have to pick up the trash in her yard; She's a nasty bitch!" We proceeded to hurry past her to the appropriate distance before you're allowed to burst into laughter. "That woman is half my age, she can get off her fat ass and clean up her own yard!" As we continued up the street, the continual defamation of the unknown neighbor followed us a surprising distance. I couldn't make out much more, but it was litered with more than its share of "bitch" and "fat ass" references.
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