The One and Only Bob

by Katherine Applegate; Michael Grant

  Within minutes, I was accused of being an undermotivated student, which is totally unfair.

  I am highly motivated.

  Just show me some cheese, please.

  Anyways. I may or may not have been a little unruly. Class-clown stuff. Tailspinning, a little random peeing, some zoomies, just for show.

  “Class, you see that crazy dashing around he’s doing?” said the teacher, pointing at me with an accusing finger. “We call that a FRAP. Frantic Random Activity Period.”

  She pulled Julia aside. “He’s a smart dog,” she said. “But he’s messing with you.”

  Which was true. But I hated getting caught in the act. I’d thought I was more subtle.

  “Bob needs to know who’s boss,” said the teacher. “He needs to see you as pack leader. Give him some time. I see this a lot with former strays. Takes them a while to trust people.”

  Like forever, in my case.

  As we left the class early, I yelled, “So long, suckers!” to my classmates.

  Couldn’t help rubbing it in just a little.

  my car thing

  I s’pose the real reason for the training stuff isn’t my bad manners. Although they leave a bit to be desired.

  It’s my car thing.

  I’ve always had a hang-up about cars and trucks. Also riding lawn mowers. Go-karts. Anything with four wheels, an engine, and a driver.

  Don’t like ’em. Don’t want to ride in ’em. Don’t want anything to do with ’em.

  Those copilot dogs with their heads hanging out the window, flying their drool flags? Boneheads.

  First of all, it ain’t safe. And second of all, bad stuff can happen after you climb into a car.

  Take it from me.

  When Julia and George and Sara realized I have transportation issues, they tried to lure me into the back seat of their car with treats.

  But you’d be surprised how stubborn I can be.

  I yelped so loud, the neighbors came running out to see what was happening to the poor little doggie.

  Score one for the poor little doggie.

  click

  That’s when they started clicker training me.

  Click, here’s a treat.

  Come closer to the car, Bob.

  Click, here’s a treat.

  Watch while I open the car door, Bob.

  Click, here’s a treat.

  Come right up to the seat, Bob.

  Click, here’s a treat.

  Come on in, Bob.

  Bob?

  BOB?

  WHERE ARE YOU, BOB?

  Yeah, it was like that a lot.

  options

  Still haven’t been in a car—or a truck or a tractor, for that matter.

  When I have to go to the rhymes-with-pet-threat, Julia and her parents walk me there.

  They say elephants have long memories. Well, so do dogs, people.

  It’s not like I’m afraid. I’m just . . . exercising my options.

  full wag

  “Are you ready to head over to the park?” George asks as he passes through the living room. He’s carrying two flashlights and a roll of masking tape.

  “Yep,” Julia says, and I do a head tilt to show I’m intrigued by the conversation.

  The place where Ivan and Ruby live is called Wildworld Zoological Park and Sanctuary. But everybody just calls it “the park.”

  George works at the park as head groundskeeper, which means I’ve got some sway. And everyone who’s employed there loves Julia.

  “Gimme a minute. I just need to grab my coat,” says George.

  “Straight home after that, though, Julia,” says Sara. “Just in case the weather gets worse. One minute the weatherman’s saying we’re going to have a little shower. Next minute it’s the storm of the century.”

  Julia scratches my head. “I thought Hurricane Gus wasn’t coming till tomorrow.”

  “Sometimes they change course,” says Sara. “They can be unpredictable.”

  “You know,” George says with a wink, “in the old days, they only named hurricanes after women.”

  Julia groans. “That is so sexist!”

  “It’s not just the wind that I’m worried about on this one,” George says. “It’s the storm surge that could be a problem. Flooding.”

  Julia tries to make me wear her mom’s latest creation, a knitted dog sweater with SECURITY written on it.

  Which I suppose is an ironic reference to my petite size.

  I politely decline.

  “All right, you win.” Julia sighs. “Ready for your walk, Bob?”

  At the mention of the word “walk,” I go all crazy-mutt so it’s clear I’m on board with the idea.

  Humans love it when we get silly. I think they’re so weighed down by people problems that sometimes they need to be reminded what happy looks like.

  Julia attaches my string. I try for a little tug-of-war, but she refuses to buy it. “Let’s go see Ivan and Ruby,” she says.

  Just hearing those names sends my tail into full wag.

  good words, bad words

  I’ve never met a dog who didn’t get a big ol’ grin on his kisser when “walk” slipped into a conversation.

  Dogs understand more than you might think. The nature channel says we’re about as smart as the average human toddler. Two-year-olds, my fuzzy rump! We’re a million times brainier than some babbling rug rat.

  There was a dog on that Man’s Best Friend show who supposedly understood like a thousand human words. Border collie, I think. Those guys need to switch to decaf.

  The narrator was gushing about this wonder dog, and I’m like, Well, duh, brainiac, of course we understand people.

  Not everything, mind you. And some of us are more attentive than others. Depends a lot on just how interesting your humans happen to be.

  Certain words will really cause our ears to perk up. The classics: Treat. Walk. Frisbee. Bacon.

  And don’t forget the swear words: Vet. Bath. Fireworks. Vacuum cleaner.

  We always hear those.

  clock versus moon

  Julia and I wait by the front door while George says goodbye to Sara.

  I think maybe the hardest thing for me about being domesticated—a “pet,” if you insist—is that I can’t control my own schedule. If I had my way, I’d hang out with Ivan and Ruby all day, every day.

  Unfortunately, humans love their clocks.

  Dogs, we use the sky to tell time, like any sensible creature. Sky says it’s dawn? Time to eat. It’s noon? Time to eat. It’s afternoon? Time to eat. It’s dusk? Time to eat. It’s midnight? Time to eat.

  Point is, it’s always time to eat.

  Dogs have a thing for the moon, too, like wolves and coyotes and our other relatives. No calendars for us.

  Moon looks like a claw, moon looks like half a pancake, moon looks like a tennis ball. Moon looks like a claw again? A chunk of time has passed.

  But humans, nope, that’s not enough. It’s not a chunk, it’s a month. It’s not just dawn, it’s 6:32 a.m. on a Thursday, and boy oh boy, we’d better hurry up and go to school or the office, or change the baby, but who gives a woof about feeding the poor, starving, sad-eyed, grumbling-tummied dog?

  After a spell, I got used to the comings and goings of Julia and her mom and dad. But it keeps changing. Julia leaves early for school and is gone most of the day. She returns home excited and energized, good scents mostly. But every now and then she comes back smelling a little like me after a visit to the dog trainer—battle weary and ready to crawl under the covers.

  Sara, who was pretty sick for a while, is feeling fine again, thank goodness, but she went back to work and she’s away all day, too. And George, who has a job at Ivan’s place, works five, sometimes six days a week.

  That means it’s just me and the guinea pigs a lot of the time. I have a doggie door and an outside run, but it’s not the same as touring the neighborhood with your person. Peeing without a potential audience is like talking to you
rself.

  Sometimes I’m the teensiest bit jealous of Ivan and Ruby. They always have someone around.

  Which is crazy, I know. I’m free and they’re not. But there it is.

  Told you I’m not a saint.

  the shelter

  I know our route to Ivan and Ruby by heart, and I can’t help tugging a bit, even though I’m not supposed to. It’s been a couple days since I’ve seen my pals, and I need my friend fix like I need air and water and belly rubs.

  We don’t live far. Down to the end of the street, around a corner (good news source there), then a few more blocks.

  When I walk Julia—well, okay, I suppose it looks like she’s walking me, but I beg to differ—there’s a place we pass that always makes me jumpy and bummed.

  It’s the animal shelter. And I know it’s a good place. A space for pets who don’t have a safe home of their own. When I was abandoned on the highway, just a few weeks old, a nice cage with a soft towel in it and a bowl of fresh water . . . well, I woulda given just about anything for that.

  Still, when I walk by and hear all those desperate barks and meows and squeaks, it gets to me.

  Sometimes having great hearing is a pain.

  Thing is, I realize I have a home and the gang in there doesn’t, and I try not to think about stuff like that, you know?

  I mean, it’s not like I can do anything about their tough breaks, right? And in fairness, maybe those animals aren’t like me. I’ve always been a resilient, hardworking sort. Maybe some of those guys even made their own bad luck.

  Don’t get me wrong. I try to be a nice guy. I do what I can to make the world a better place, sure. Chat with the guinea pigs. Lick the strawberry jelly off Julia’s hand. Do my wag-and-dance when the ’rents come home to make ’em feel good. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.

  But it’s like I said before. You gotta look out for numero uno.

  Guess that’s why the shelter harshes my mellow. It’s just . . . you know. I’d rather not have to hear those guys every time I walk by. Makes me sad.

  Reminds me of the bad old days.

  droolius

  I knew this guy, back when I hung out at the mall with Ivan and Ruby. Nice dog named Droolius. Basic mutt, maybe some Lab and golden in there somewhere. He’d done some hard time at a couple shelters. One of those dogs you knew had seen more than his share of the bad stuff the world can throw your way. One ear bitten off. Scars. A limp.

  Droolius lived in his backyard. Winter, spring, summer, fall. Chained up mostly. Flies on his food. Empty water bowl way too often.

  Still, he always had a nice word to say when I’d pass him on my daily rounds, checking out the neighborhood trash cans.

  Once I saw his owner—again, that word!—step onto the back porch. Droolius was barking, but he had a good reason. A stranger had just passed by. Barking is what we’re supposed to do in that circumstance, right?

  Maybe he’s the UPS guy, maybe he’s a serial killer. I mean, c’mon, we’re not the FBI.

  So anyways. Owner came out, big guy, mean-looking, gave Droolius a hard kick with his boot, yelled, “Shut up, you fool,” disappeared.

  Droolius looked at me, kinda embarrassed. We kept talking. A few minutes later, the owner came out again. Put some towels on a line.

  Droolius headed over, tail between his legs, cowering, saying, I’m sorry I love you I am yours yours yours with his whole dog being.

  Guy completely ignored him, headed back inside.

  “He’s having a tough time,” said Droolius when the guy was gone.

  “He’s a jerk,” I said, because subtlety is not my strong point.

  “No. He loves me. He does.”

  “He has a funny way of showing it.”

  “Humans,” said Droolius, licking a sore on his leg. “You know how they can be.”

  “Do I ever.”

  “But we gotta stay true. Love ’em. Forgive ’em.”

  I thought about that. Thought about it a lot.

  “Why, though?” I finally asked. “Why do we have to forgive them?”

  Droolius looked shocked, then confused. As if I’d just asked why cheese tastes good. It just does.

  “That’s the way it is,” he said. “That’s what we do, Bob.”

  I started to reply, but I managed to hold my tongue, which is not easy for me. It’s a very long tongue with a mind of its own.

  There was no point in making Droolius feel worse than he already did.

  Later that morning, I found half a turkey sandwich. Gave the whole thing to him.

  Well, okay, I had a taste first. But still.

  forgiveness

  Seems like forgiving humans is one of those doggie things we’re all supposed to do. Like having zoomies or doing bed boogies.

  It’s written into our canine souls.

  Well, somehow I didn’t get the memo, the one that apparently went out to every other dog on the planet, about forgiveness.

  Why should I forgive the humans who tossed me and my siblings out into the night? When you forgive, you lose your anger, and when you lose your anger, you get weak.

  And when you’re weak, you can get hurt all over again.

  the art of human watching

  By the time we reach the park, the sky is definitely in a bad mood. Gray clouds galloping like panicked horses. The nervous scent of rain on the way, the kind that makes you antsy in your own skin.

  When we get near the employee entrance, I hop into Julia’s backpack, like always. We enter through the special gate, where George shows his ID, checks in, and says hi to the staff.

  Pet dogs aren’t allowed at the park, natch. Foxes, wolves, jackals? My dog cousins? They are. But in my opinion, even though they’re technically part of my extended family, they’re nothing like dogs.

  Only dogs have perfected the art of human watching.

  The smartest thing we ever did was figure out how important the human gaze is. So often when we follow our owners’ eyes, we’re rewarded with something amazing.

  A smelly sock!

  A glazed doughnut!

  A glazed doughnut that’s fallen on a smelly sock!

  We follow every blink, every sidelong glance.

  We see it, whatever it is, before humans do.

  We understand before they do.

  And if there’s a glazed doughnut involved, we eat it before they do.

  puppy eyes

  It’s midmorning, still pretty early. There aren’t many visitors around yet. “We’ve got a meeting in twenty,” George tells a couple workers, Hank and Sonia, who groan. “Just a quick one. Going over contingency plans one last time, in case there’s any flooding.”

  During the last hurricane, a small part of the park flooded, mostly near Reptileville. George helped move cages. He came home smelling like cottonmouths and copperheads. It was all I could do not to barf.

  “Weather service just issued a tornado watch,” Hank says.

  “I thought we were having a hurricane,” Julia says.

  “We are. Gus. But sometimes tornadoes are spawned during hurricanes,” George explains.

  Julia frowns. “But a watch means ‘maybe,’ not ‘for sure,’ right?”

  “Yeah, but I want you to head home,” George says, “just in case.”

  “Please, Dad? Just ten minutes?” Julia says. She’s using the special voice she reserves for moments when she really, really wants something from her parents.

  I guess kids manipulate their moms and dads the same way dogs manipulate humans.

  “I don’t know—” George begins.

  “I promised Bob.”

  I figure that’s my cue to pop my head out and look adorable. So I do.

  “Hey, Bob,” says Hank. Sonia reaches over and scratches my ears.

  I’m pretty popular around the park.

  I give George my best puppy eyes, and he caves.

  “Ten minutes, tops,” he says. “Meet me back here.”

  Puppy eyes.

&n
bsp; Works every time.

  mr. oog

  Here’s how I figure puppy eyes got their start.

  Cave humans were sitting around a fire, wearing mammoth fur and grunting about how there was nothing on TV because TV hadn’t been invented yet, and some wily wolf thought, Whoa, they’ve got leftover mammoth meat!

  And he probably whimpered and cowered and did a tummy display and looked pathetic enough that Mr. Oog finally tossed him a bone. And soon enough, a few zillion years later: voilà! Man’s best friend.

  After all that time, there’s a thing, like a magnetic attraction, between dogs and humans. We’ve studied them for so long we can read every twitch and sigh.

  S’pose it was easier than chasing down mammoths.

  And I get it. I do.

  The behind-the-ear scratch. The food in a fancy bowl. The bed by the fireplace.

  Gotta admit that Julia’s pretty fun to hang out with. And I’m grateful, really I am, that her family took me in.

  Still, I don’t need them.

  You need someone, eventually they let you down and you end up feeling like a real doofus.

  the park

  As Julia walks, I sneak peeks out of her backpack, like I always do.

  We pass the meerkat family, poking out from their den holes like the Whac-A-Mole game they used to have at Mack’s mall. I see the flashy flamingos, with their one-legged balancing act. And the terrifyingly beautiful tigers. Even their cute cubs give me the willies.

  Families, I’ve noticed, take a lot of different shapes. Jim and Joe, the penguins, adopted an abandoned egg, and they are the sweetest doting parents you ever saw. I see it with humans at the park, too. Families of all shapes and sizes and colors and genders and yep, they all seem to do just fine.

  We round a corner past Sea Otter Alley. Oliver and Olivia are floating calmly on their backs, holding each other’s paws. It’s pretty adorable, I have to admit. But me, I don’t need the trouble that comes with family.