The One and Only Bob

by Katherine Applegate; Michael Grant

  When I’m with little Ruby, I think: Girl, look at you! Hard-luck past, and here you are, so much happier. So loved.

  Ruby, like Ivan, was plucked from Africa as a baby. She ended up in a circus that went bankrupt, then got shipped off to Mack’s mall.

  Ruby was taken in by dear old Stella. When Stella passed away, Ivan stepped in to play . . . well, elephant dad, I guess.

  I did my part, too. Not ’cause I felt like I had to.

  It just made life easier. Elephant toddlers are a handful.

  You think humans are bad? Try putting a two-hundred-pound baby elephant in time-out.

  ruby’s family

  Little Ruby seems much more content at the park, surrounded by her new herd. Old and young and in between, they spoil that adorable pachyderm like you wouldn’t believe.

  She deserves every minute of it. Kid had a rough start.

  Seems elephants hang out in packs of females. Now that she’s at the park, Ruby has adoptive sisters and aunts and grandmothers galore. (In the wild, the elephant guys head off, once they’re old enough, and do their own thing.)

  Sometimes I lose track of who’s who among the elephants, because they’re always taking mud baths, scrambling their smells.

  By the way, what kind of animal actually likes baths?

  Mud, sure.

  ivan’s art

  “How’s it going, girl?” I call to Ruby as she stops near the moat edging the wall.

  “I had cantaloupe for breakfast, Uncle Bob! And it was yummy! And then I took a mud bath!” She pauses to take a breath. “Do you want to hear a new dog riddle, Uncle Bob?”

  “Of course I do,” I say, and I catch Ivan’s amused glance.

  “What kind of dog is always on time?” asks Ruby.

  “Hmm. You got me, Ruby. I’m totally baffled. Befuddled. Bewildered. What kind of dog?”

  “A watchdog!” Ruby exclaims. “Watchdog! Get it, Uncle Bob?”

  “Not bad, Ruby. Not bad at all,” I say.

  “Ivan says it’s going to rain buckets,” says Ruby. She dips her trunk in the moat and blows bubbles.

  “I think Ivan is onto something there.”

  “Did he show you his new picture?” Ruby asks. She grabs a tuft of grass and tosses it in the air. “I wish I could see it, but I can’t ’cause of that silly wall. But he told me all about it.”

  My pal Ivan is quite the artist, just like Julia.

  Ivan sits up and nods toward a spot on the wall.

  “Another mud mural?” I ask.

  As any good dog knows, dirt plus water equals mud, and mud means mess, and mess means let’s roll in this stuff and maybe dig a hole or two or ten.

  But for Ivan, mud plus a flat surface equals a waiting canvas.

  I crane my neck, edging a bit farther down the top of the wall. Don’t want to draw attention to myself.

  “Hey, nice,” I say.

  I mean, I’m not an art guy. To me, art is a glop of spray cheese on a cheese dog with extra grated cheese on top.

  Still, I’ve always admired Ivan’s work.

  “It’s—” Ivan begins.

  “No,” I say. “Don’t tell me. Lemme guess.”

  “You always guess wrong,” Ivan says.

  “Not always.”

  “You thought my palm tree was a dandelion.”

  “Art is in the eye of the beholder,” I say.

  “You thought my blackberries were giant ants.”

  Kinyani ambles up to join in the conversation. “And need I remind you that you thought his portrait of me was a chimpanzee with gas?”

  “The resemblance was striking,” I say.

  Kinyani glares at me.

  She glares at me a lot.

  on the subject of chimps

  Probably I shouldn’t have mentioned the chimp angle.

  Gorillas aren’t as open-minded as dogs. A lot of them have a thing about chimps. Think they’re clowns. But when I look at apes and gorillas, seems to me they have a lot more in common than they admit to.

  Dogs ain’t perfect. But I’ll tell you one thing where we rule: tolerance.

  For us, a dog is a dog is a dog. I see a Great Dane, I say howdy. I run into a puggle, it’s Glad to meet ya, how’s it goin’, smelled any good pee lately?

  Go to a dog park and you’ll see. We are equal opportunity playful. You sniff my rear, I sniff yours.

  You don’t see that with humans, obviously. Constantly seeing differences where none exist. All those things like skin color? Dogs could care less. You think I won’t hang with a dalmatian ’cause he’s spotted? Or a shar-pei ’cause she’s wrinkled?

  I’m not saying I love every dog I meet. (Snickers comes to mind.)

  But I’ll always give a dog the benefit of the doubt. Life is short. Play is good. And there are plenty of tennis balls to go around.

  a very handsome dog

  “Hi, Aunt Kinyani!” Ruby calls.

  “Once again, Ruby,” says Kinyani, “I am not your aunt. I am a primate. And you, my dear, are not. More’s the pity.”

  “But if Ivan is my uncle, then you have to be my aunt,” Ruby declares.

  “Ahem,” says Ivan, pointing to the wall. “My painting, Bob?”

  I consider. “It looks like . . . like a dog?”

  Ruby flaps her ears. I can tell she is trying very hard to stay quiet.

  “A very handsome dog,” I add. “Is it—”

  “It is!” Ruby exclaims. “It’s you, Uncle Bob! Uncle Ivan told me!”

  “But who’s that?” I ask, pointing to another set of mud strokes.

  “I thought you needed a companion,” says Ivan. “I know you must get lonely at home, by yourself all day.”

  It’s true. But I’ve never mentioned that to Ivan. Guy’s like a mind reader.

  “I think Snickers and Bob would make a cute couple,” says Ruby.

  I blink in disbelief. “Bite your trunk!”

  Ruby starts to reply, but her voice is drowned out by a sharp clap of thunder.

  “Storm’s getting close,” says Kinyani. “Ivan, dear, come on. You know how you hate the damp.”

  It’s true. He carries around old burlap bags so he won’t have to sit on wet grass.

  Ivan looks at me sheepishly. “She knows me so well.”

  Kudzoo, one of the baby gorillas, bounds over and leaps onto Ivan’s back. Ivan loves all the youngsters, but Kudzoo is his favorite. I think she reminds him a little of his twin sister, Tag, who died when she was still a baby.

  “Ride!” Kudzoo commands.

  Julia appears, her backpack at the ready. “Bob,” she calls, “we need to get going.”

  “Ride, now!” Kudzoo repeats, yanking on one of Ivan’s ears.

  “Looks like it’s time to go,” says Ivan. “Good to see you, buddy. Stay dry, okay?”

  “Will do, big guy.” I turn to Kinyani. “Enchanted, as always, my dear.”

  A trumpeting noise cuts through the air. “Uh-oh,” says Ruby. “That’s Aunt Akello.”

  Akello, the oldest of the elephant aunts, lumbers over. “Come on, Ruby. Weather’s getting bad.”

  “Just one more minute?” Ruby pleads.

  “Now.”

  “But I need to tell Uncle Bob one more riddle.”

  “Now,” Akello repeats.

  “Nobody ever listens to the littlest elephant,” Ruby complains.

  “You can tell me the riddle next time, kiddo,” I say, winking at Akello.

  Ruby brightens. “Okay. Gotta go or I’ll be in big trouble! Love you, Uncle Bob! See you later, Uncle Ivan and Aunt Kinyani!”

  “I’m not your—” Kinyani begins, but Ruby is already galloping back to her herd.

  the beginning

  In the distance, thunder growls, long and low and not giving up. Reminds me of my stomach, pre-breakfast.

  I test the air. Weird. Something isn’t right.

  “Julia!” It’s George, rushing over. “Hurry up! You need to get inside.”

  George
has an odd scent, like he’s on guard. I’ve only smelled it a few times on him.

  I look up. The clouds have turned strange shades of green and yellow and gray, clustered together like rows of fat marshmallows. It’s so ugly it’s beautiful. I can’t stop looking.

  The air goes still, like a cat before it leaps on its prey.

  Kinyani and Ivan and Kudzoo are racing toward the gorilla villa.

  A fat raindrop hits my nose. It tastes wrong. How can rain taste dangerous?

  People are yelling, running. Opening umbrellas. Covering their heads with maps of the park.

  More drops.

  At the far end of the field, I can just make out Akello herding Ruby along.

  Another drop. A dry one. Like a pebble.

  “Hail,” George says. “Julia. Now.” He grabs her hand.

  Rumbling. The sky boils and swirls.

  “Bob!” Julia calls. “Come on!”

  I move to leap off my perch. To run to Julia.

  I’ve done it a thousand times. But this time, I lose my footing.

  I never slip. I am as nimble as Nutwit.

  But the rain, the hail.

  I let out a yelp as I land on Ivan’s side of the wall, splat in the mud.

  “Bob!” Julia screams.

  “He’ll be okay,” George says.

  I can smell Julia’s fear, and George’s doubt, as he drags her away.

  torn apart

  Noise.

  It’s all noise.

  Noise that hurts. Noise like a massive truck bearing down on us, the power of its engine, the inescapable wheels, the relentless roar.

  Nothing to see, nothing even to smell.

  Just the terrible sound of the world disintegrating.

  no way

  I’m flying.

  airborne

  Not far, just into the nearby giraffe domain.

  Not high, just enough to buzz the tops of trees.

  Not long, just long enough to stop breathing.

  But I fly.

  I’m not alone. Half the world seems airborne. Trees, boards, bicycles, chunks of roofs, umbrellas, chairs, bits and pieces of life: it all levitates past like some horrible magic trick.

  Something hits my head—a toy truck, maybe?—and I yelp in pain.

  And I’m terrified, so scared I pee myself, and I’ll be the first to admit it—you try it and see how dry your underwear stays—but still.

  I fly.

  Not like in the box, the box with my brothers and sisters. Not like with the owl.

  This is different.

  This is me, Bob the dog, spending a moment as Bob the bird.

  landing

  It’s over.

  I land—umph—hard, on my rear, and slide to a stop directly underneath Stretch, the oldest giraffe in the place.

  The roar—and by now I’ve realized we’re talking a real, live tornado—vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving a vacuum.

  A silence that hurts even more than the noise.

  bad dog

  And this is why I’m a Bad Dog.

  Not Bad Dog, like I chewed your favorite slippers. Bad Dog, like I’m not a good representative of my species. Of any species.

  I don’t think, Ivan! Ruby! Julia! Are they all right? I’ve got to find them.

  That’s what a hero dog would do, one of those guys on the Man’s Best Friend show. Hero dogs dash into flames and dig into rubble. Hero dogs are fearless.

  Nope. Not my style.

  What do I do? Bob, untamed, undaunted?

  I howl like a newborn puppy.

  honest

  I’m not hurt.

  Banged up a little, sure. But nothing major.

  And I don’t howl for long.

  But it’s what I do.

  Like I said, I ain’t a saint. But at least I’m honest about my failings.

  stretch

  Slowly, with some difficulty, Stretch peers down between his two front legs. His body partially shelters me from the rain. A piece of canvas has draped itself around his neck like an ugly scarf.

  I swallow my howls. We look at each other, too stunned to form actual words.

  Finally Stretch clears his throat. “Hello,” he says in a strangely calm voice. “What kind of animal might you be, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Dog.”

  “Didn’t think you guys flew.”

  “We don’t. As a rule.”

  I pick myself up, move out from under Stretch, and take in my surroundings. The pelting rain has slowed some, and the wind has dulled.

  “What was that?” Stretch asks, trying and failing to yank the canvas off his impressive neck.

  “Tornado, I think.”

  I’ve seen tornadoes on the Weather Channel. They looked like water swirling down a drain. If the water were black and full of trucks and trees.

  They looked like death.

  I gaze up at him. I have to crane my neck. “You okay?”

  “Yep,” says Stretch. “But from what I can see, a lot of other folks aren’t.”

  aardvarks

  Across the way, I hear something.

  A small squeak.

  “Who lives over there?” I ask Stretch.

  “The aardvark family,” he replies. “Lovely neighbors.”

  Carefully, I venture across Stretch’s domain. The sky is dark as dusk.

  I hear a flutter of wings overhead. It’s Mitch, the mockingbird. He’s missing some feathers.

  “Bob,” he calls, settling on a fence post. “Was that you I saw up there?”

  “Yep. How are things looking?”

  “Not good. Lotta damage.”

  “Well, take care of yourself,” I say.

  “Likewise.” He pauses to straighten a wayward feather. “Little hint, by the way. Next time you fly, try flapping your paws.”

  I make my way over a broken wooden barrier, tiptoe over some scattered glass and twisted metal, cross the paved path, and arrive at the aardvarks.

  More sounds. They’re coming from what looks like a demolished keepers’ shed. I hesitate, not sure what to do. It’s a big mess, and I’m a small guy.

  Also, my head hurts. I feel dazed. Fuzzy. My ears are ringing.

  I yank off some small stray boards with my mouth.

  For the record, small stray boards have small stray nails in them.

  Underneath the boards are three shivering aardvarks, two babies and a mom. They’re strange looking, I gotta say, with their long piggy snouts and bunny ears.

  “You good?” I ask.

  “W-w-w-what was that?” the mother manages to ask.

  “Some seriously bad weather.”

  “Is it over?”

  I consult the wind. “Doubt it.”

  “You think everybody’s okay?” she asks.

  “Dunno. Sure hope so.”

  And then it hits me.

  Ivan. Ruby. Julia. George.

  “Look, I gotta go,” I say in a strangled voice. “Any part of your indoor den survive?”

  She nods. “Think so.”

  “Go there. Lie low.”

  “Where’s Pedro?” the littlest aardvark asks.

  I feel my head with a front paw. A nice bump is forming. “Who’s Pedro?”

  “Our keeper.”

  “He’ll come,” I promise.

  “Are you sure?” the baby asks.

  “I’m sure,” I say, but of course, I’m lying.

  sounds

  The eerie quiet doesn’t last. Before long, the squeals and shrieks and brays and squawks of the animal kingdom crowd the air.

  Terror. Confusion. Pain.

  From far off comes the wailing of sirens. Car alarms blare from the parking lot. Now and then, people shout.

  Cries for help translate into any language, human or animal, fish or fowl.

  Never want to hear those again.

  Never, ever.

  smells

  And the smells! Like I said, feelings have a scent.

 
I figured I’d smelled pretty much everything there was to inhale in this big ol’ world.

  But the smell of sheer terror.

  Of helplessness.

  Of blood.

  Of broken bones.

  Of torn wings.

  Well.

  Turns out there are a whole lot of smells I’ve never encountered. Didn’t know how lucky I’ve been.

  surveying the damage

  I pick my way past the devastation. The tornado has left a random path of misery.

  The African Aviary is gone, simply gone.

  The Kids’ Farm nearby? Untouched. Although there are some very flustered chickens clucking like all get-out from the safety of their henhouse.

  I see few people. Hopefully, a lot of potential visitors were scared off by the threatening weather.

  It looks like some of the animals listened to their early warning systems—those little voices inside telling them something bad was coming their way. Quite a few seem to have taken cover before the brunt of the storm.

  Wish I’d paid more attention to my own internal weatherman.

  I pass the penguin viewing window, the one that allows visitors to watch their graceful swimming. Several penguins are underwater, swooping and swiveling.

  “Joe! Jim!” I call, and they both swim over.

  “Bert okay?” I ask.

  Baby Bert pops his little head out of the water. “Hey, Bob! Did you know we’re having a storm?”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “All good here, Bob,” Joe says. “You?”

  “Yep. Took a little flight, though.”

  “Daddy,” says Bert, “can I fly?”

  “In the air? Nope,” says Joe. “You fly underwater. You’re a penguin.”

  “Bob flew. And he’s a dog.”

  “Bob is a very special dog,” says Joe, and he gives me a look, a grown-up, just-between-us look, that says, We’re all right, but what about the others?