The One and Only Bob (The One and Only Ivan #2)(2)

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.