The One and Only Bob (The One and Only Ivan #2)(4)

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.