The One and Only Bob Read online

  Dedication

  for my family:

  human, feline,

  and—of course—canine

  Epigraph

  For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love.

  —Carl Sagan

  To err is human; to forgive, canine.

  —Unknown

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  canine glossary

  One

  confession

  and while i’m at it . . .

  robert

  numero uno

  how we met

  the amazing history of man’s best friend

  in my opinion

  i’m yours

  no one

  early days

  boss

  alone

  cars

  the owl

  luck

  more luck

  will

  exit 8

  history

  tennis ball

  Two

  dream

  the smell of a storm

  on the poetry of stink

  the news

  snickers

  nutwit

  spoiled

  another confession

  cricket bully

  trust

  my car thing

  click

  options

  full wag

  good words, bad words

  clock versus moon

  the shelter

  droolius

  forgiveness

  the art of human watching

  puppy eyes

  mr. oog

  the park

  change

  my inner wolf

  kimu

  enrichment

  walls and bad guys

  gift

  ivan

  marriage

  tiny but tough

  not talking

  brave

  ruby

  ruby’s family

  ivan’s art

  on the subject of chimps

  a very handsome dog

  the beginning

  torn apart

  no way

  airborne

  landing

  bad dog

  honest

  stretch

  aardvarks

  sounds

  smells

  surveying the damage

  baby sloth

  make no sudden moves

  mutt versus wolf

  gorilla world

  help us!

  kudzoo

  an idea

  team elephant

  what’s out there

  not moving

  xena

  dragon

  hugging

  loose

  cpr

  no

  miracle

  gorilla ghost

  wolf on the run

  shots fired

  jungle

  a situation

  never

  one place

  a split second

  on my way

  Three

  looking

  what if

  six

  relieved

  coward

  the wind

  enough

  my paddles

  inside

  the return of snickers

  alive

  catching up

  tough

  not right

  evacuate now!

  preparing for the worst

  a question

  romeo

  an interesting life

  hey

  giant monkey and sea monster

  to safety

  then, to my surprise

  yay

  traffic stop

  lightning and fireworks

  another bridge

  hero

  cartoons

  not a movie

  do not let go

  kimu again

  how

  gone

  first aid

  the truth

  forever

  rescue

  Four

  aftermath

  riddle

  working on it

  snickers, again

  a visitor

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  canine glossary

  bed boogie: circular “dance” performed by dogs before settling into bed, probably a primitive nesting behavior

  copilot: dog riding in car, often with head poking out of an open window (see also: drool flag)

  crazy mutt: exuberant greeting ritual

  drool flag: visible tongue protrusion, frequently displayed during copiloting or meal preparation

  FRAP: frenetic random activity period (synonym: zoomies)

  full wag: the happiest tail position, a relaxed circular swish, sometimes including hip wiggles

  fur on alert: raised hair on a dog’s neck and back, an involuntary reaction often caused by fright or aggression

  head tilt: quizzical look employed to charm gullible humans

  LEAVE IT: the world’s worst command, especially when applied to food

  me-ball: dried excrement thrown at observers (origin: Gorilla, informal)

  playbow: body position with elbows down and rear up, signaling an invitation to have fun

  rhymes-with-pet-threat: vet, an otherwise kind human armed with thermometers and needles

  tailspin: (1) chase involving the flexible appendage attached to the rear of most canines; (2) (informal) an embarrassing or quixotic effort

  toe-twitcher: dream (often squirrel-focused) resulting in foot movement

  tug-of-war string: a long (though never long enough) piece of fabric or leather used to lead humans during walks

  UFO: (1) unidentified food object, often found under kitchen tables or couch cushions; (2) unidentified floor object, hopefully edible; (3) unidentified flying object, ideally a stick, flying disk, or slobber-covered tennis ball

  water bowl of power: (1) jumbo-sized ceramic dish; (2) uncomfortable human chair, generally found in bathrooms

  zoomies: sudden bursts of energy, usually involving chaotic dashes through the house (informal; see also: FRAP)

  One

  confession

  Look, nobody’s ever accused me of being a good dog.

  I bark at empty air. I eat cat litter. I roll in garbage to enhance my aroma.

  I harass innocent squirrels. I hog the couch. I lick myself in the presence of company.

  I’m no saint, okay?

  and while i’m at it . . .

  I may or may not have eaten a pepperoni pizza with anchovies when nobody was looking.

  Also, I may or may not have eaten a coconut vanilla birthday cake when nobody was looking.

  Also, I may or may not have eaten a Thanksgiving turkey (except for the stuffing—way too much rosemary) when nobody was looking.

  Nobody looking. That seems to be the common thread.

  As they say on the crime shows: motive and opportunity.

  robert

  Name’s Bob.

  I’m a mutt of uncertain heritage. Definitely some Chihuahua, with a smidgen of papillon on my father’s side.

  You’re probably thinking I’m some wimpy lap dog. The kind you see poking out of an old lady’s purse like a hairy key chain. But size ain’t everything.

  It’s swagger. Attitude. You gotta have the moves.

  Probably I shoulda been named Bruiser or Bamm-Bamm or Bandit, but Bob’s what I got
and Bob’ll do me just fine.

  Julia named me. Long time ago. She’s my girl. She calls me “Robert” when I get on her nerves.

  Happens pretty often, to be honest.

  numero uno

  There’s an old saying about us dogs, goes like this: It’s no coincidence that man’s best friend can’t talk.

  Lemme tell you something. If we could talk to people, they’d get an earful.

  You ever hear anyone mention man being dog’s best friend?

  Nope?

  Didn’t think so.

  Way I’ve always figured it, end of the day, you gotta be your own best friend. Look out for numero uno.

  Learned that one the hard way.

  That’s not to say I don’t have a best pal. I do.

  Gorilla, name of Ivan. Big guy and I go way, way back.

  Gorilla and dog. Yep, I know. You don’t see that every day. Long story.

  I love that big ol’ ape. Ditto our little elephant friend, Ruby.

  They’re the best.

  how we met

  The first time I met Ivan, I was a homeless puppy. Desperate, starving, all alone.

  It was the middle of the night, and I’d slipped into the mall where Ivan lived in a cage. I wandered a bit, grateful for the warmth, confused by the weird assortment of sleeping animals I found there, checking every trash can for anything edible.

  There was a small hole in a corner of Ivan’s enclosure. He was fast asleep, cuddled up with a worn stuffed animal that looked like a weary gorilla.

  He was snoring, and man, that guy snored like a pro.

  In his open palm was a chunk of banana, and—I still get shivers when I think about this—I ate it right out of his hand.

  Guy coulda squeezed his fingers shut and I woulda popped like a puppy balloon. But he just kept on sleeping.

  And then—more shivers—I am either a maniac or the bravest dog on the planet, probably a little of both—I hopped up onto that big, round, furry tummy of his.

  That’s right. I climbed Mount Ivan.

  Crazy, I know. I have no idea what I was thinking. Maybe I was so exhausted I went a little bonkers. Maybe he just looked so warm and cozy that I figured it was worth taking a chance.

  I did my bed boogie. Dogs don’t feel right till we do a quick dance before settling.

  Once I had things just so, I lay down in a little puppy lump and rode the waves on that tummy like a puny boat on a great brown sea.

  When Ivan opened his eyes the next morning, he didn’t seem surprised in the least to find a puppy snoozing on his belly. He refused to move until I woke up.

  I think he was as glad as I was to have found a new friend.

  the amazing history of man’s best friend

  Before long, me and Ivan were best buddies.

  We’re an unlikely pair, sure. Ivan’s calm and serene, a philosopher, an artist. I wish I could be more like that. No one’s ever accused me of being levelheaded.

  Hotheaded, sure.

  And I can’t talk pretty like Ivan can. I’m a street dog, after all. And proud of it.

  Still, we clicked, in a way I never had with humans. “Man’s best friend”? No way. “Gorilla’s best friend”? You bet.

  Seems to me the first time I ever heard that phrase—“man’s best friend”—was while I was watching TV with Ivan.

  Back in the day, Ivan had this little television, and we watched a lot of stuff together. Old movies, Westerns, cartoons, you name it. Poor guy was stuck in a cage, didn’t have a lot else to do except throw me-balls at gaping humans.

  Anyways. Me and Ivan, big fans of the tube. Cat food commercials. Pro bowling. Dancing with the Stars. What’s not to like?

  Once we watched this special on the nature channel. It was called The Amazing History of Man’s Best Friend. Show was all about famous dogs. There were rescue dogs and therapy dogs and war dogs and fire dogs and movie dogs and this dogs and that dogs. And between you and me, most of ’em were just plain overachievers.

  Then they got to this dog named Hach-something-or-other. Hatchet-toe, maybe? Seems his owner died (for the record, I object to the word “owner,” but we’ll set that aside for now), and Hach-something-or-other sat around for over nine years in the same spot at the same train station, day after day, waiting for him to return.

  Thing is, the narrator guy was blabbing on and on about this dog, really over-the-top stuff: How loyal! How loving! Break out the Kleenex! Blah blah blah, wah wah wah! Man’s best friend!

  They made a statue of this dog. I kid you not.

  A statue of the dog who sat around nine years waiting for a dead guy.

  in my opinion

  That dog was a ninny.

  A numskull.

  A nincompoop.

  i’m yours

  Lemme tell you about being man’s best friend.

  Being man’s best friend can mean a lot of things. Companionship. Belly rubs. Tennis balls.

  But it can also mean a dark, endless highway and an open truck window.

  It can mean the smell of the wet wind as hands grab the box you’re in with your brothers and sisters and you go sailing into the unkind night and still, still, crazy as it sounds, you’re thinking, But I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.

  no one

  That’s what being man’s best friend can get you.

  A black highway.

  An empty box.

  And no one in the world but you.

  early days

  I don’t remember much about my early puppy days. It was three years ago, but sometimes it feels like three hundred. Mostly I recall fighting with my sibs for the primo meal spot. Lots of squirming and squeaking. Everything soft and milk-smelling and movable. Like we were one great big complicated animal.

  I never met my dad, and my mom didn’t say much about him, except that he was trouble. Mom had a beautiful fawn coat. Chihuahua, some this, some that. Nice messy bloodline.

  Mutts rule.

  Mom crooned to us. Told us stories. Laid down the law.

  I wonder if she knew she didn’t have much time to prepare us for the world.

  We were born in a dark place. Probably under some porch stairs, I suspect, since I remember the sound of boots plodding up and down, the biting and ugly smell of human feet.

  They called my mom Reo. And they fed her most days, though sometimes she had to fend for herself.

  She never showed fear toward them, or respect. Indifference, I guess you’d say. Unless they tried to handle one of us. She growled then, hoping to make it clear that we were hers and hers alone.

  I myself got picked up a couple times. The hands reached in, grabbed. They were rough and smelled of strange scents, bitter and meaty.

  My mom’s growl made me fearless, and I wriggled and yipped. The hands shoved me back to the warm place, where I could sleep and drink and dream in safety.

  Still, I understood, in my simple puppy way, that dogs belonged to humans, and that was how it would always be.

  boss

  My mom wasn’t much for names. She’d had a lot of litters. I guess she’d run out of ideas.

  My brother “First” was, natch, the firstborn. “Runt,” my youngest bro, was the last. “Dot” had a little spot on her back, and “Yip” was always complaining. I was “Rowdy.” Goes without saying. And that left my oldest sister. We all called her “Boss.”

  Boss was small but mean, with a distinctive sharp-sounding bark. She could outmaneuver any of us to the best spot for dining.

  I admired her grit. Even if she did get on my nerves.

  When we got a bit older, less blind, more cocky, I fought her off occasionally. But mostly Boss won. She was fearless, that pup.

  alone

  The truck happened without warning one night. They threw us in a box, left my mom behind. I can still hear her frantic howls.

  I landed in a muddy ditch. It was a cloudy night, nearly freezing. Even the moon had abandoned me.

  And the smells! Everythi
ng so wild and unknown. Animals with big jaws and bigger appetites. Birds that swooped in to kill. Death and life all mixed up together.

  I searched for my siblings until the truth became clear:

  I was utterly alone.

  cars

  The next morning I began my slow journey, moving through the tall, wet grass, my limbs stiff from the cold.

  Now and then, I’d drink from a mud puddle or gnaw on some grass. By evening I was wobbly with hunger and thirst.

  I followed the highway. Every time a four-wheeled creature roared by, I froze in fear. And yet—and this is what slays me—I knew that cars meant humans, and humans meant the possibility of living, just as much as they meant the possibility of dying.

  the owl

  Darkness had fallen when it came out of nowhere, the owl.

  A shadow in a shadow.

  They don’t make a sound, you know. Not a sound.

  It’s quite impressive, when you think about it.

  luck

  Just as her talons, those marvelous weapons, raked my fur, I caught my right front foot in a small hole and stumbled.

  If she’d gotten hold of my body, I wouldn’t be here. But all she managed to do was grab my tail.

  Only time in my life I’ve regretted my handsome hindquarters.

  I was airborne, hanging upside down, dizzy and dazed. And just crazy enough to think, Hey, I’m actually flying, before the terror hit full force.

  I caught a whiff of other animals below. Later I found out they were pocket gophers, but back then I just knew I was smelling something completely foreign.

  The owl must have decided the gophers would make a more satisfying meal. She let loose her grip, and I plummeted to the earth.

  more luck

  Maybe it was my puppy fat, or my soft bones, or my incredible good fortune.

  But I didn’t die.

  Didn’t even break anything.

  I’d flown twice in my short life and lived to tell the tale.

  will

  I found a small hollow at the base of a fallen tree. Poked my nose in and got a swat and hiss from a grouchy raccoon.