The One and Only Bob (The One and Only Ivan #2)(5)

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.

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.”