Platonic Canine

Postaday for June 10th: A Dog Named BobYou have 20 minutes to write a post that includes the words mailbox, bluejay, plate, syrup, and ink. And one more detail… the story must include a dog named Bob

Bob’s kinda shaky these days, but he still tries. I open the blinds in the morning and he opens one eye against the light. Then I unlock the door and he gets up. It takes him a while, but he manages it, and I hold the door for him the whole time. Once I didn’t– I was in a hurry to get the mail, and when I came back, he was back in his spot like nothing happened. And when I filled his bowl, he didn’t move. And when I opened the door later, he didn’t move. Finally I had to resort to giving him a few burnt pancakes with too much syrup, and he gave me a lick on my hand. His way of forgiving me. Ever since then, I hold the door until he makes it out.

He’s shaky but he still surprises me. We went out one morning to see of the circulars had arrived, and a bluejay swooped down to give me some hassle. Arthritis, blind in one eye, muzzle gone to white, but Bob let out a woof and was in the air, swatting that asshole down like it was nothing. “What the hell, Bob! You ain’t no cat!” He just sort of panted the way dogs do with their tongues to show you a grin.

A walk out to get the mail in morning, Bob watering the one tree in the yard, leaves a deposit in a spot right next to the trashcan so it’s easy for me to dispose of. A walk in the evening to water the same tree, no deposit this time, just me and Bob looking at those mountains way off yonder. Was a day when that was all we could see. Now we see it over the top of houses, that new neighborhood they built in the valley.

Then it’s me and the circulars, looking for deals. I eat my apple slices and let Bob lick the plate. I watch some baseball, take a nap, Bob takes a nap, the TV takes a nap. Naps are good. Get up and wash the ink of my fingers. Maybe have a bowl of soup. What else are me and Bob going to do all day?

I wish I could hand you a twist to this story, like my wife died or I got some serial killer buried in my back yard, or I won the lottery but there’s no amount of money that can make Bob young again. Sorry about that. Just a little snapshot of an old man and his old dog, the easy chair I spend most of my day in, the worn spot on the rug where Bob spends his.

Either you love dogs or you don’t. If you don’t, you can stop reading now. If you do love dogs, think they’re pretty much the best, let me ask you this question: when you picture old Bob, what kinda dog do you see?

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