The Maltese Falcon

Besides the word maltese, the title of this post is entirely irrelevant (The Maltese Falcon is a 1940's Humphrey Bogart noir/detective film). The week I moved to a place closer to work in June 2009, my mom bought a maltese puppy from a neighbor, ostensibly replacing me. She kept the name they had given him: Shimu. He's almost 2 years old now and still a spoiled little baby.

The door to my bedroom at home doesn't latch completely and can be pushed open. Shimu discovered this early on and every morning the first thing I hear is him sprinting down the hall from my mom's bedroom (where she keeps him at night) and my door being thrown open from the impact of a tiny, fluffy white cannonball. The first thing I see is his eager, impish face peering over the edge of my bed. It's a little annoying to be woken up so raucously every morning, but I admit it's pretty endearing.

When I'm home, he's the person/mammal I end up actually spending the most time with since he just hangs out in my room/bed/lap. Whenever I leave, he sits in my room alone for a couple of days before he realizes I'm not there.