Walk me, dammit

That's what his eyes say. No, that's what his entire body says. And I would, I really would, but it's 2:38 in the afternoon and about 80 degrees. He thinks he wants to walk, but he really wants to wait until the fog starts to come in and the cement stops threatening to scorch his little paws. Or at least I do. Besides, I have to go get ingredients for chicken soup. And pick up my next book club book. But I promise, little dog, that I'll walk you before you know it. So enjoy that rawhide, consider eating that breakfast I gave you five hours ago, and keep being the most beautiful dog in the world.