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.
The One and Only Bob Page 1