The Adventures of Bob the Dog – This is NOT my dog

Let me make one thing very clear at the outset. Bob the Dog is NOT my dog.

I do not own a dog. Bob belongs belonged to my next-door neighbor Cole, and I place all the blame directly on his doorstep. Not that that does any good, because Cole is not using that doorstep at the moment and likely will not ever again darken his door, let alone use the step.

Bob the Dog is a Blue Heeler, the Australian cattle dog. Cole paid a bunch of money for Bob in the mistaken idea that he would make a good bird dog. If cows could fly, he might be, but birds are of no interest to this dog. To hide his general annoyance with the dog, Cole took huge delight in pointing out that he named the dog Bob, and greatly enjoyed working “Bob the Dog” and “Bob the Neighbor” into the conversation. I was not amused.

I should also point out that everyone in the neighborhood is acquainted with Bob the Dog – he howls. Nay, he bays at the moon. Some even call him Bob the Bugler. Complaining to Cole has been in vain to this point and is moot now because of Cole's absence. But let me start at the beginning.

About two weeks ago Cole called me from Las Vegas, where he and his wife Murleene were burning through their inheritance, such as it was. He explained that he “was on a real streak, and up many thousands of dollars, and he wanted to ride that streak while he could, so he was not coming back on Sunday night as planned, and would I please go over and feed Bob the Dog and check on him?”

Not that I was given much choice, but Bob the Dog had been howling louder than ever, so I figured he was out of food and checking on him was to my benefit. Now Blue Heelers are a very intelligent breed of dog, and Bob the Dog had already figured out that the dog food stash was on the screened-in porch and it was mere puppy play to get in there and lay waste to what remained of the supply. All that was left was a shredded sack and some pot plants gnawed to stubs. Cole had mentioned there was more feed in the garage and I knew where the key was, but I found only a half-sack in there and I knew that wasn’t going to last long so I hoped Cole’s luck would turn and they would be back before it became a crisis.

As it turns out, his luck had turned. He called me very early Tuesday morning and in desperate whispers said he had lost the thousands he was up, lost a bunch more money that he had borrowed, lost the house, lost the furniture and cars, lost Murleene, and now some very bad people were looking for him. He thought it best if he visited Montana or Canada or someplace far away for a while and he hoped that Bob the Dog could move next door and live with Bob the Neighbor. There was an “urrk” on the phone, and that’s the last I’ve heard from my ex next door neighbor, only now there’s a “For Sale” sign in front of his house and all the furniture and his car disappeared one night.

Unfortunately, Bob the Dog did not go with the furniture. I was pretty sure by the plaintive howls that Bob was out of food again, but by the time I could get over there, he was nowhere in sight. He did leave a note, however, that said he was going to go “releve the Valero Corner store of all their Slim Jims and beef jerky, and thanks for the care, mate.” Hmm. Turns out Bob is not that smart after all. He misspelled “relieve.”

Next - the Corner Store Caper