Hooper has been hanging around the joint for a month now. He's changed our lives.
First off, Brenda now gets up at 6:30 a.m. regardless of whether she wants to or not. She's the designated dog driver in the morning, and she's seen some amazing sunrises and met freakish yoga people. Me, I have the night shift, and walk Hooper immediately after arriving home from work. We've met cyclists and weirdo dalmatian owners.
We've met a lot of dogs and dog owners in fact, and I know more of the neighborhood dogs by name than the owners; Morgan, Shylo, Hannah, Buster, they are all familiar faces. So are those of their owners, but I'll be damned if they are anything other than The Lady who Owns Morgan and Hates Hooper for his Goddamned Energy, The Dude Who Owns Shylo, The Grad Student Who Owns Gorgeous Hannah, and The Self-Appointed Dog Training Genius Who Owns Bratty Buster.
Speaking of the use of the word "owner" in the context of dogs and their, uh, owners, it seems that hippie town Boulder prefers the term "guardian" for people who own their dogs. Whatever. Look, hippie, I love Hooper more than you ever will love your Grateful Dead mix tape, and besides, I have a receipt for Hoop. A receipt. So, shut the fuck up.
Hooper knows stuff. He looks to us for permission to eat and to walk through a door. He also just took a piss in the guest bedroom, so he knows how to do that too. This is unfortunate.
Hoop has gained some weight, but I think he will top out at fifty or so pounds, which is perfect. I think he will end up looking like a perpetual Lab puppy, which is perfect.
Did you know that they give out treats at the Good Times in Boulder? Well, they do. Hooper & I found this out today, mostly to Hooper's delight. Most people driving around town also seem to melt in the presence of Hooper's little face gazing out the rear quarter window of our Golf.
Hooper's looking fairly dead on the floor right now, and Brenda's looking equally expired on the couch eighteen inches from me as I type this. Currently, life is good.