I was sorting through some assorted jpegs and found this: Jack, the Jack Russell, on his first day of freedom from the pet shop (20th May 2001), aged twelve weeks old. My bargain basement doggie, the last of his litter (all of whom I'd admired for four weeks, with my nose pressed to the glass every time I went past), until finally, on an unexpected dash to the Plaza to pick up something I'd forgotten, there he was: sitting all alone under a big sign that read, "$100 off".
What a little cutie...
Captain's Log, Supplemental: Jack was part of a litter of six or seven little bundles of patchwork dynamo and, week by week, I'd notice fewer and fewer in their window at the pet shop, as certain puppies caught their prospective owner's eye. For some reason (maybe the dark, almost-bare spot on his snout?), Jack was the last one left.
I recall saying, when only three were left, "Who in their right mind would buy a puppy who'd spent four weeks in a pet shop?" (Me, of course, the very next day, when the bargain price was announced.) But he was certainly a gregarious little dog as a result, with all that attention from humans and other animals.
He answered to Jack in the shop, of course, so the name was a no-brainer - and when the salesgirls in the shop asked me to sneak him back into Penrith Plaza for a visit, they announced: "Three of his brothers are called Jack!"