There once was a dog named Bob who decided that he would run away from home. So he dug up one of his bones from where he’d buried it, out behind the woman’s rose bed, and wrapped it up in a ratty old red handkerchief. The woman used to tie the red handkerchief around his neck when they were going for a walk down to the village, because it gave him such a “je ne sais quoi,” she said.
Bob took pause for a moment while he thought of those earlier days in their life together. The woman had called him “my gentleman” then. She didn’t call him that anymore. At least, she hadn’t, not for a long, long time. Now she called him Bob, not even Mr. Bob. And she didn’t call him very often. Of course, she didn’t have to. They’d come to know each other and each other’s habits so well that they rarely spoke at all. But she was so busy, now, with that darn squalling baby of hers.
That was the problem, of course. That baby. Why did she have to go and get one of them? Wasn’t he good enough for her anymore?
Bob shook his head and got back to work, tying that bone up in the red handkerchief. It was getting thin, the old handkerchief was. Bob was glad he hadn’t dug up one of his bigger bones. This was only a medium-sized bone, as he wasn’t sure just how long he was going to be gone. If he was going for good, he’d have to come back and dig up some of his bigger bones.
That was another thing. He hadn’t had any fresh bones in awhile now. She used to pick one up for him every time she went into the butcher shop, but lately, what with wearing that baby strapped to her chest, she seemed to buy just about as little as she could get away with without starving herself to death. Maybe Rick, Bob’s other human, was picking up some food for them, but he’d never been any good at coming home with bones.
Of course, when the woman’s parents came to visit, they usually brought him some sort of treat. Hey! that made Bob think. The last time her parents had come had been right about the time that baby had come! Maybe they brought the baby. Maybe it was all a plot on their part. Maybe they thought the baby would be a better pet for the woman than a dog.
Bob shook his head again. It just didn’t add up. After all, the baby didn’t sleep in his bed or anything. And he hadn’t noticed that the woman had tied any handkerchiefs ‘round the baby’s neck.
Bob went down to the woman’s vegetable patch and helped himself to a tomato stake. He slipped the stake through the knot in the handkerchief, stood up on his hind legs and put the stake over his shoulder. He’d seen a picture once of a man walking like that up on the kitchen wall. The woman didn’t know he could walk so well up on his hind legs. Well, just wait ‘til she saw this!
Bob walked up to the back porch. He peeked in through the screen door. He didn’t see the woman, but he could hear the baby – not squalling or anything, just googling and oogling. Then he heard the woman’s laugh, soft and low. Bob narrowed his smarting eyes. He gave one half-hearted bark, then, down on the ground again (he couldn’t do stairs up on his hind legs) he stood up, put the stake over his shoulder, and began walking slowly out toward the gate.
Nobody called out his name. Nobody whistled. At the gate he turned back. He leaned on the gate post for a moment, wondering if he should really go. Then he saw the cat sitting on the railing of the verandah next door. The cat was watching him through half-closed eyes, disdain written all over him.
That’s it, Bob said to himself. A dog’s got to have some pride. He turned and walked up the road, heading for open country. He’d not stick around, ignored and laughed at by the neighbouring cats. No, sir. He was off.
He soon had to drop down onto all four legs. He was a pretty good hind leg walker, but only for so long. Fact was, he wasn’t a human. He was a dog, and dogs are four-footers. He discarded the tomato stake, and carrying his handkerchief dangling from his mouth, he headed up the road. Mrs. Austen’s. He figured he’d stop there first. She’d always been very understanding.
Bob’s friend Skip used to live at Mrs. Austen’s. Skip had been a good friend to Bob, the two of them going for explores into the fields and bush, flushing out a groundhog, the odd skunk, once a porcupine. They’d rolled in some good rotten debris together, the two of them going home smelling – strong. Of course, their people had other words for the small, and they were always subjected to baths and shampoos or just a good hosing down at the end of such explores. But, Skip wasn’t there anymore.
Mrs. Austen’s grown-up children had decided that Mrs. Austen couldn’t care for Skip anymore. Bob had thought that kind of funny. He’d always figured it was Skip who took care of Mrs. Austen. Anyways, Skip had been taken away to live on a farm. Bob had met up with Skip once or twice since the move. The woman went out to the farm sometimes to buy apples and honey, and Bob went along for the drive. There was Skip, and just like old times, they’d bark and sniff and lick, but then Skip would step back. He was a very serious fellow now, with a job to do. There was no question of slipping off for an explore, or even a run down to the creek. Skip had sheep to watch, and the ducks and geese sometimes needed to be herded in, and even sometimes the children. Skip had his paws full now, that was clear.
So Bob stopped at the end of Mrs. Austen’s lane to think about matters. He put his handkerchief bundle down in front of him, and was just sitting there, minding his own business, when a familiar rumble came from ‘round the bend. Rick’s truck. Bob’s tail flipped back and forth excitedly, but then he recalled that he was on a mission. On the run, in fact. Perhaps he should make a dash for the bushes and let Rick drive by, so that he could carry on with his plan. But his plan was a bit loose around the edges…
The truck pulled up in front of Bob, and the passenger door swung open.
“Hey, Bob,” Rick greeted him, leaning across from the driver’s seat. “You up for a little fishing?”
Well, that did it. Bob bounded into the truck without a moment’s hesitation. He and Rick may not have been close, not the way he and the woman had been, but one thing they did have in common was a love of fishing.
Rick reached across Bob and pulled the door shut. He gave Bob’s head a tussle and laughed as he dropped the truck into gear and pulled away.
“You looked like you were waiting for something there, Bob. How’d you know I was thinking ‘bout a little fishing?”
After a pause he said, “Great minds think alike, I guess.”
They bounced and rumbled down the road, then Bob suddenly remembered his bone wrapped up in the handkerchief. He spun about and put his paws up on the back of the seat. He whined a little as he watched the road disappear behind them, his little bundle long out of sight. Good thing he’d only packed a medium-sized bone. It would be history before he got back to rescue it.
“What’s the matter, Bob? You look like you forgot something.” Then Rick laughed. “Don’t you worry ‘bout that little baby,” he said. “She’ll still be there when we get back.”
Rick reached over and gave Bob’s head another tussle. “That baby sure does love you, Bob! Nothing cheers her up faster than a lick from you.”
Well, that gave Bob something to think about. The baby loved him? Ha!
The truck rumbled on, Bob and Rick both watching the road, each lost in his own thoughts.
Maybe he’d go home again after all, Bob thought. After some fishing, that is.
