The One and Only Bob (The One and Only Ivan #2)(9)

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.

Works every time.





mr. oog


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