We walk down streets and across blocks and we rack up miles like war stories. He runs ten feet in front of me, constantly looking back to make sure I'm following.
I am. He's leading us.
We see you jogging.
"Is this your dog?" you ask.
"It's a new relationship."
"What are you going to name him?"
"Frank," I say.
"As in 'Franklin?'"
"No, as in he's very direct with what he has to say and I thought 'Honest' was a silly name." You're confused. "Yes, as in 'Franklin.'"
"Does he like being scratched behind his ears?"
"He's right there, you know. You can ask him."
You just decide to give it a try. He seems to enjoy it. And now you can't not follow him, either.
I wonder where he's going to take us.