The Curse of Cute

I think we should have gotten an ugly dog.  You know those stuffy modern neighborhoods where the kids don't ever play outside?  This isn't one of them.  And they've all figured out where we live.

Being only three pounds, Andy's not a huge fan of strangers, let alone loud excitable ones.  But every time we take her out to poop there's a chorus of screams and a swarm of bicycles comes over the hill.  

"Can we pet your dog?!"  "Does he bite?!"  "What's his name?!"  "Is he boy or girl?!"  "HE LICKED ME!!!!!!!!"  "Put him down!"  "Can I walk him?!"  "Can I hold him?!"  "What kind of dog is that?!"  "Can he run fast?!"  "Will he run away?!"  "OOO, I SAW HIS TEETH!!!"

By this point, she has usually jumped into my arms, climbed onto my shoulder, and seems to be contemplating a flying leap in the other direction.  Pooping has been entirely forgotten.  Eventually we escape into the apartment, and she poops on the floor.

Now they've actually started following us home, inviting themselves inside, and peering through the sliding glass when the other door is locked.

"Hey, I know where you live!"  "I see her cage!"  "Is that where she sleeps?"  "Is she shy?"  "Will she bite?"

I think I'm going to start saying she does bite.  We've started checking through the blinds before going out to do her business.   Her new favorite position for walks is hanging around my neck like some kind of Cruella de Vil fashion accessory, keeping an eye out in all directions.  Maybe we'll just get a litter box.