Kept going. Waddling, whimpering.
Lights ahead. New, strange smells.
Kept going.
Kept going.
It’s amazing how much the sheer will not to die can keep you moving.
exit 8
I finally came to a small road curving off the main highway. Exit 8, turned out to be. A big billboard overhead had a picture of a terrifying animal on it.
Course I didn’t know what a billboard was. Didn’t know that the scary animal was a gorilla, let alone that he would become my dearest friend.
But something told me to follow the off-ramp.
And eventually I ended up at the Exit 8 Big Top Mall and Video Arcade, Home of the One and Only Ivan.
history
I made it to the mall. Slept in dirty hay by some garbage bins. The next night, I found that hole in Ivan’s cage. Stole his banana. Slept on his belly. And the rest, as they say, is history.
For two years, I lived at that seedy old place that was part mall, part circus, and all crummy.
But that was nothing compared to Ivan. He spent twenty-seven lousy years there. And our dear friend Stella, an old circus elephant, was stuck there for most of her life, too.
When Stella passed away, it nearly broke Ivan’s heart. I tried like crazy to get him through those dark days. But what really saved him, I think, was Ruby, our baby elephant friend.
Before Stella died, Ivan promised her he’d get Ruby outa that awful place. And to my amazement, he actually pulled it off.
Ivan and Ruby and a bunch of our other pals ended up going to different places, zoos and sanctuaries that knew how to take care of them. They’re with others of their own kind. And they’re loved and well cared for. It’s been over a year now since we all moved, and they seem so much happier.
Me, I lucked out. My girl, Julia, whose dad had worked at the mall, decided her family needed a dog. Who was I to argue? Two square meals, my own bed, all the belly rubs I could beg for. What dog in his right mind would say no to that?
The best part is, we don’t live far from Ivan and Ruby. I get to see ’em all the time.
I’m glad they’re nearby. And I’m thrilled they’ve settled in so well. Really. It’s a solid solution.
But it’s not a perfect one.
tennis ball
The way I understand things, it’s like this. We live on a lonely ball called Earth, and humans have basically been throwing it against the wall for so long that the poor ol’ ball is falling apart.
It’s like me with a tennis ball, chewing away until it’s nothing but pieces of slimy rubber that taste like, well, slimy rubber.
And that means there aren’t as many places left for wild animals.
Seems there are good zoos and bad zoos and good sanctuaries and bad sanctuaries, just like there are good dog families and bad dog families. The good places are trying to keep wild species healthy and safe. They don’t want endangered animals to go away forever.
They also don’t want the Earth to turn into a slimy, dilapidated tennis ball.
Although honestly, slimy rubber doesn’t taste half bad.
You should try it sometime.
The thing is, I would give anything to see my dear pal Ivan deep in the jungles of Africa, where he was born. Or to see Ruby running across the savanna with a herd of elephants, her big ol’ ears flapping in the wind.
I’d give up a mile-high pile of bacon cheeseburgers to see that happen. I really would.
But it ain’t happening. I get that, and so do they.
When you’re an animal, it helps to be a realist.
Two
dream
This morning I wake up in my cozy bed, way too early for Julia to make me breakfast. She and her mom and dad are still asleep, and even the guinea pigs are silent. My belly grumbles, and once again I curse my thumblessness.
Humans are one big design flaw. The inferior noses. The inscrutable, humdrum rumps. And don’t get me started on their—ahem—odor. But the opposable thumb idea? Yeah, that was a nice upgrade.
The cans I could open! The doorknobs I could conquer!
Anyways. I feel worried. Off.
Worry’s a waste of time. And it doesn’t fit with my tough-guy act. But sometimes I can’t seem to help myself.
Before I woke up, I’d been dreaming about Ivan and Ruby and Stella.
It wasn’t a nice dream, a fun-and-run toe-twitcher.
Nope. This one was a nightmare. A bad one.
We were swimming, all four of us, in a black, raging river. For some reason, I was in the lead. And I kept looking back, telling them I was gonna save them.
Me. Save them. Two elephants and a gorilla.
As I paddled like mad, their voices faded. I looked behind me and they’d vanished.
And then I heard it.
A faint bark.
That bark.
I woke up then, like I always do.
I did an all-over shake, trying to toss off the stench of nightmare that clung to me like shampoo after a bath.
I told myself to chill. Get a grip. Stop worrying about nothing.
And yet, some primitive part of my brain—the wolf in me, maybe—is on edge.
A lot can go wrong in the moment left to chance, the blink of an eye, the bounce of a bone.
There are so many ways the world can find to fail you.
the smell of a storm
By the time everyone else wakes up, I’ve calmed down. But the wind outside sure hasn’t.
It’s an early-fall Saturday, gusty, with scraps of sun. Clouds bouncing off each other like bunnies in a basket. Messages on the wind pouring in from everywhere. From dogs making their daily rounds, from feral cats, from anxious raccoons.
Basically everybody is asking the same thing: What is the deal with the weather today?
I already know. Weather channel was on last night, with a screen full of big, white, cotton-candy-looking swirls. Julia’s dad, George, has already taped up several windows. Sara, her mom, packed an emergency bag just in case we have to evacuate.
Another hurricane is on its way. Third this season. Not as big as the last couple, but slow-moving. I’ve seen the routine, know the ropes.
Once breakfast is done, I sit on the couch in the living room, waiting impatiently for Julia to come home so she can take me on our daily stroll. She has a dog-walking service, and she’s out walking other dogs.
I get my own private walk, ’cause she’s my own private girl.
I can practically taste the storm coming through the open window: the back-of-my-throat tingle, the metallic edge, the fizzy energy.
But it’s more than that. It’s as if the air is up to no good, sneaking up on the world and looking for trouble.
on the poetry of stink
Of course, not everybody can smell what I’m smelling. My nose is a zillion times more powerful than a human’s.
Dogs are experts at odor. Students of stink. We analyze the air the way humans read poetry, searching for invisible truths.
And we don’t just smell the good and bad stuff that people notice with their substandard schnozzes. The usual suspects: popcorn and lilacs and freshly sharpened pencils. Diapers and brussels sprouts and freaked-out skunks.
No, our noses get it all, the whole shimmery double rainbow in April. Humans, they’re lucky to get a cloudy day in November.
We get that molecule of roast beef dancing on the wind fifty miles from the tidy kitchen where it just slid out of the oven.
We get the cherry lollipop under the back seat of the Honda sixteen cars up on the highway at rush hour.
We get things humans can’t even dream of getting. We’re the ones who find the miracle earthquake baby cuddled in her crib under tons of rubble.
We’re the ones who find lost hikers in the wilderness after a quick whiff of a sweaty sock.
We can even tell when someone’s sick. We can smell seizures and cancer and migraine headaches. Try getting your guinea pig to do that.
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We smell feelings, too. Sad has a sharp scent, with an undertone of sweetness. Sad smells like being lost in a winter forest as the sun goes down.
And happy? Happy is the best, but there’s a touch of wistfulness around the edges. Happy smells like bacon ice cream served up in an expensive leather shoe.
You’re going to love every minute of it, but you know it won’t last forever.
the news
Sometimes when Julia and I go for walks, I’ll brake at a corner (corners are the best for fresh news), and she’ll tug and say, C’mon, Bob, there’s nothing there.
Oh, but there is.
Here’s the thing about poop and pee. I get that humans are not into them. I see the bathroom doors shut tight. The embarrassed, downcast gazes.
You guys are totally missing out. There’s a whole lot of info hiding in your average pee mail. When dogs want to share the latest gossip, we just wait until nature calls. You’d be amazed what we can learn during a quick bathroom break.
People read the news. Check the TV. Browse the web.
I linger over a fire hydrant and inhale the whole wide world.
My ears, by the way, are almost as remarkable as my nose. I pick up on all kinds of things humans can’t hear.
What we do with our noses and our ears is kinda like taking a big ol’ knot and loosening it up. Separating out the strands. Unbraiding things.
People smell a reeking pile of trash in a Dumpster. We smell a dollop of cream cheese, a hint of peanut butter, a smattering of Froot Loops.
People hear the roar of a crowd in a stadium. We hear a strain of whiny four-year-old, a whisper of worried superfan, a note of grumpy hot dog vendor.
Man, dogs are cool.
snickers
While I watch from my perch on the back of the couch, Julia passes by on the sidewalk. George asked her to keep her dog-walking route close to home, in case the weather changes.
She’s wearing a shiny purple raincoat and leading three dogs: a goofy mutt named Winston, a timid dachshund named Oscar Mayer, and . . . her.
Snickers.
An old nemesis of mine, Snickers is a fluffy white poodle with delusions of grandeur. A big, snooty, pain in the puffball.
Ooh, that pooch drives me crazy.
Our mutual dislike goes back to my early days as a stray. Snickers was a fancy, pampered, sleep-on-a-pink-satin-pillow kinda gal. Her owner, Mack, ran the mall where I lived with Ivan and Ruby.
That’s where I first encountered Snickers. She teased me mercilessly, and beneath the fuzzy facade, I always suspected there was a little, I dunno, spark there.
Anyways. After the mall closed down, Snickers, being Snickers, landed on her feet. Mack married an older widow lady with more money than sense, and she dotes on that ridiculous poodle. Mack’s too lazy to walk Snickers himself, so he hired Julia to do it.
“Lookin’ good, Snick baby!” I call through the open window, and she gives me her curled-lip, squinty-eyed face, which, come to think of it, is pretty much how she always looks.
As usual, Snickers is dressed to the max. She’s wearing a pink poncho, a sparkly rain hat, and teensy pink boots.
“Those boots were made for mockin’,” I add for good measure.
It feels good, giving her some grief. But before I can really relish the moment, another annoying acquaintance of mine appears.
nutwit
Nutwit, the gray squirrel who lives in the live oak in our front lawn, jumps to a lower branch, looking at me with barely concealed pity.
I hate pity. Especially the barely concealed kind.
“I don’t know why you taunt her,” he says. “You’re hardly in a position to talk, Bob. You are Snickers.”
“Come over here to the window and say that.”
“So you can, what, drool me to death?”
“Are you aware that my best friend is a gorilla?” I ask. “You would make fantastic ape chow, dude.”
Nutwit reaches for a dangling acorn and yanks it free. “I thought gorillas were vegetarians.”
“Ivan eats termites,” I say. “He might make an exception for you.”
“Face it, Bob. You’re soft. You’re one step away from your own pink rain boots.”
“He has a point,” says Minnie, one of the family’s guinea pigs, from her cage next to the TV.
“No, he doesn’t,” says Moo, her cagemate.
“Yes, he does,” Minnie squeaks.
“Doesn’t.”
“Does.”
“Does.”
“Doesn’t . . .” Minnie pauses. “Wait, you tricked me!”
The guinea pigs rarely agree on anything.
Nutwit leaps over to the window ledge, acorn in paw. He presses his tiny, twitchy nose to the screen. “You couldn’t last a day out here, Bob. Some of us have to live by our wiles.”
“Hey, I lived on the street longer than you’ve been alive.”
Nutwit nibbles his acorn. He’s quite the prissy eater. “Whatever you say, Bob.”
“I say scram.”
“Fine. Hint taken. Anyway, storm’s en route. I should be stocking up on my nut stash while I can.” Nutwit gives me a wise-guy look. “That’s how we do it in the real world.” He scampers off with an acrobatic flourish.
Squirrels never do a simple jump when a quadruple-backflip-cartwheel is an option.
“You’re full of it,” I say to nobody in particular.
“We’re full of it!” says Minnie.
“Yes, we’re extremely full of it!” says Moo, and they popcorn in agreement.
Guinea pigs hop up and down when they’re happy. It’s called popcorning. And it’s totally ridiculous.
You’re happy, wag your tail like a real mammal.
“I am not soft,” I mutter, nosing my protruding belly.
I leap, with effort, off the couch. Then I head to the bathroom for a good, long drink from the water bowl of power.
spoiled
I know Nutwit has a point.
I’ve become a creature of habit, spoiled after a stretch of being my own dog. For a long time, I was Bob the beast, cunning and streetwise.
As a stray, I lived off leftovers at the mall while Snickers dined on her fancy-pants kibble. Man, how I loved that cotton candy stuck to the floor. The unexpected UFOs. The ends of ketchup-covered hot dogs, scattered under the bleachers like, I dunno, big toes or something.
Ivan offered to share his gorilla food with me, and Stella and Ruby were always ready to pass along a carrot or an apple. But I refused. I needed to stay in shape, stay tough, stay true to my wild nature.
Okay, so maybe every now and then I’d sneak a banana chunk from Ivan’s breakfast.
But then things changed. I became civilized. Domesticated. A pet.
Don’t get me wrong. There are definitely some perks. Julia, who’s an artist, painted my name on a food bowl. She gave me this wonderfully mushy blanket, the kind where you can bed boogie forever till it’s squished to perfection and you can curl up just so.
I love that blanket. But I simply cannot sleep without Not-Tag, Ivan’s raggedy old toy gorilla.
Course, just when I get my blanket and Not-Tag imprinted with the right amount of Eau de Bob, Julia’s mom does the unthinkable. Puts them in the washing machine and removes every last bit of . . . me.
There are other indignities I tolerate.
The daily walk on a tug-of-war string, after going stringless my whole life.
The attempts to train me. Like that’ll ever happen.
The kisses and cuddling.
Well, the cuddling’s okay, I s’pose.
But the kissing I just don’t get. If you wanna kiss your dog, why not just give him a big old lick on the face and be done with it?
Anyways. So what if I’ve gotten a little spoiled? A tad soft around the edges?
There’s a difference between being soft and being afraid. Being a coward.
another confession
Too bad I know the truth.
cricket bully
When Julia returns from walking her charges, I race over and give her a good ol’ Bob-style hello. Lots of yipping and twirling, followed by some attempts to jump into her arms.
Humans love that stuff.
Julia looks at me sternly and says, “Robert, down.”
I leap some more because I’m determined to convince her I’m incorrigible. Untrainable. It’s part of my charm. My Bobliness.
“Down,” she says again. From her coat pocket, she pulls out her little metal clicker, along with some treats.
I hate that clicker. It’s meant to help train me. But it’s like a cricket bully.
Here’s the theory. I do something right, Julia clicks. Gives me a treat. The clicks tell me when I’m behaving, and the treats reinforce it.
If that happens enough, before your very eyes I’m supposed to transform into a Good Dog.
Well, I ain’t that easy.
“Down, Bob.” Julia tries again.
I want a treat, but not enough to cave. So I opt for a playbow. A compromise.
Julia sighs. “You are definitely a challenging student.” To my annoyance, she puts the treats back in her pocket.
I think Julia may be onto me.
trust
A while ago, Julia got it into her head that I needed to improve my manners. We went to a dog-training class.
I wasn’t really into the whole Sit and Stay and Do the Tango stuff.
The worst command of all? The truly inexcusable, only-a-human-could-come-up-with-it order?
LEAVE IT.
“Leave it” means Walk on by, Bob. Sure, there’s a piece of bacon just inches from your drooling piehole, but do me a favor and just pretend it’s not there, okay?
Uh, not okay. Where I come from, you never pass up a free meal. UFO drops to the carpet, it’s mine. And I’ll be chowing it down before you can say, Where the heck is my meatball?
The One and Only Bob Page 2