Doggone it.

Apartment 9A has a fifth roommate this week.

He has four legs.

He is covered in fur.

And, he stands about 13 inches off the floor.

His name is Jabu.

I call him Lil Jabu.

Or Jabby.

Or Lil Jabbers.

Or Jabberwocky.

Or Juba (when I get dyslexic).

Or Lil Jabberson.

Or Baby.

(I would like to make special note that he responds to any of the above. Does this make him stupid or extremely affable? I have yet to decide.)

Roommate Hannah is his adopted mother for the week. He is on her heels the moments she walks into the foyer. Oh, Lil Jabu lives and breathes for her key in the lock! He doesn't fool me.

Right now, he is curled up beside me on the couch... how many square feet are in this apartment? I don't know, but he is wrapped around my leg as if there were far less square feet than there actually are. "Okay, Baby, give me some space," I have to say. He does not budge. He gives me one long soulful look with those big round eyes and I am a goner. Awww, shucks.

But, I know the moment Mother turns her key in the lock Jabby will be off in a flash. Emily, who? he will say. And, then he will nip Mother's shoes and do his chicken dance on his two back legs. And bark. He is very good at that last part.

Oh Jabberwocky, what was apartment 9A before you graced us with your presence? And, what will it be with your absence?

In this dog-eat-dog town, one black-haired Pomeranian has completely stolen our hearts.