Adventures of Bob the Dog - The first single

 Taking a little vacation break. Here's another post from the archives.

Bob the Dog and his band – The Back Yard Howlers – have released a single that’s beginning to get a lot of airplay. Frankly, I’m surprised. I thought yodeling was pretty much a thing of the past, but Bob sings some too. It’s interesting that when he sings there’s no trace of the Aussie accent. I’ve heard the song and it’s not that bad. Sort of a throwback to the days of Jimmie Rodgers, but I’m guessing that’s before your time.

The song is titled “I’m So Lonesome I Could Howl” and the last I saw it had been given an “8 kibbles” rating by City Dog/Country Dog magazine. In an accompanying article, Bob’s agent said that the band was in the studio working on their first album.

Meanwhile there’s been a lot of bad press about Bob in the newspapers and entertainment news.  Why am I not surprised? It seems he’s been accused of yodeling in the wrong back yards, among other things. He denies it, and says that it’s just “yammering from some jealous bitzers, and that he’s living on the true.” I'm not so sure about that.

One news item quoted the manager of the Opreyland Hotel as saying, "Bob has certainly worn out his welcome with us. We try to be sensitive to the the needs of guests, but repeatedly diving off the 4th floor balcony into the atrium pool is not behavior that we can condone or permit."

In the mean time, Entertainment Tonight says a French Poodle named Yvette has obtained a restraining order from the Davidson County Sheriff's Office, which bans Bob from coming within 100 feet of her. Bob claims that it's a case of mistaken identity - she's got him confused with some other bloke.

This is not my dog.

The Adventures of Bob the Dog – Tishomingo Take Down

Time to take a breather, so I'm taking a blogger break for a while. I notice that other bloggers, columnists, and cartoonists pull up things from their archives, so that's what I'm going to do.

Last week I got a $300 bill from a Veterinary Clinic in Tishomingo, Oklahoma for “Surgical repair to the left ear of a Blue Heeler named ‘Bob’.”

I waited to see if I would get any more news about this particular issue, and sure enough in a couple of days I got an email from Bob. I’ll let you read it in its entirety:

Bob Dog bobdog1215@gmail.com to me

G’day Mate

I guess by now the postie has fetched the docket from the vet. Just put that on my shirt tail and I'll pay you back when my first album goes aluminum.

Me and the mates were playing for pints and petrol in a little joint in Tishomingo when things got a little barney. We had done both sets and were loading out when a Rottweiler who was full as a boot began howling at us. I tried to never mind him until he began going on about me mum – you know what I mean – and that's when I decided he needed sorting.

We took it out the back but it was a tee-up. The Rott and his mates had hosed down the alley and there was about a foot of muck back there and me being at least 20 kilos lighter than the Rott I didn't have much of a purchase. Well, to wrap it all up, he blinkin' near tore my ear off and if Leroy hadn't tapped him about a bit with the inn keeper’s baseball bat I might have carked it right there.

As it is, the doc needled me up and when I get the cotton out of me ear I'll be able to hear again, and of course, I do need to be able to hear so as to be able to yodel, so thanks for helping me out, mate.

Bob the Dog

Glad I could help, Bob.

To be continued...?

The Adventures of Bob the Dog – Bad Dogs Anonymous

Time to take a breather, so I'm taking a blogger break for a while. I notice that other bloggers, columnists, and cartoonists pull up things from their archives, so that's what I'm going to do.

It took only three days before Bad Dogs Anonymous knew that Bob was just too much dog for them and threw in the towel. They recommended their residence program, Incorrigible Dogs Anonymous, or IDA, as it is known locally.

The following Monday, Bob and I met with the counselors at IDA, who seemed a rather nervous lot. They kept looking at the transcript of Bob’s time in plain old BDA, and kept muttering things like, “You know that success depends entirely on the canine.” And “Not all dogs are meant to be domestic pets” and “You do know that our fees are payable regardless of the outcome of the program, don’t you?”

When I left, I looked back at Bob and he was looking at me with his puppy dog eyes. I might have been more sympathetic if I had not just read in the Statesman that police had recovered a taxi in Brown County, missing from Austin since a taxi-driver had been car-jacked after being called to a fake address on Cameron Road a week ago. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you Bob?

I didn’t hear anything from the folks at IDA all week and I really thought that was a good sign – until I drove over there on Friday afternoon to take Bob home for week-end furlough and found the building locked and seemingly abandoned. I called the number but service had been disconnected, and when I called the folks at plain old BDA they put me on hold and never picked up the phone again.

I was a little wary of the whole situation, but Bob did not show up next door and Monday I got a fancy certificate in the mail that said Bob the Dog had completed all aspects of his rehab in exemplary order and that there absolutely was no need for further treatment. I was dubious, but frankly, I could live without Bob and his escapades. I just had to keep telling myself: This was not my dog! This was NOT my dog!

So actually I was pretty happy when I got a text message from Bob Monday night. It said simply, “FOUND OUT I CAN YODEL. ME & MATES HEADED FOR NASHVILLE.”

I just wondered who paid for the cell phone. Silly me.


Next - Tishomingo Takedown

The Adventures of Bob the Dog – Impounded!

Time to take a breather, so I'm taking a blogger break for a while. I notice that other bloggers, columnists, and cartoonists pull up things from their archives, so that's what I'm going to do.

I’ll be honest and say that after some time had passed and it got strangely quiet next door – no more howling at the moon – I really, deep-down, was hoping that Bob had run off to seek his fortune elsewhere. I felt a little guilty about it, but this was not my dog, people! I should have known that I wouldn’t be that lucky and sure enough, just when I was feeling a little smug, I got a call from the Brown County dog pound. They said they had my dog; did I want to pay the fees and come get him or what?

“What do you mean you have my dog? I don’t have a dog!”
“Well, I’ve got a good-looking Blue Heeler here wearing a tag with your name and phone number on it. Is your dog named ‘Bob’?” the voice said.
“Let me talk to the dog.”
“Excuse me?” the voice said.
“Never mind. How much is the fine?
“Two hundred dollars or three 50-lb bags of Bugle Boy dog food with real beef morsels and enroll the dog in rehab. Your choice.” said the voice.
“I gotta go buy some Bugle boy. I’ll be there in the morning.”
“Be sure it's with ‘real beef morsels.’ That’s the only kind we accept.”

Turns out that they caught Bob trying to break into Underwood’s Cafeteria in Brownwood in the middle of the night. On the way home he said that he had paid good money for what he thought was the alarm code and that he should have known better than to trust a Pomeranian.

I asked him how he got to Brownwood and he said I really didn’t want to know.

I asked him how it was that he had a dog tag with my name and phone number on it and he said he ordered it over the Internet right after it became obvious that Cole was not coming back.

I started to ask him how he paid for the alarm code and ID tag, but I thought better of it. Bob is right. Some things you just don’t want to know.

“You know you’re going to have to do a rehab program, don’t you? I have to send a certificate of completion to the pound.” Bob allowed as how he could do that and he had heard that Bad Dogs Anonymous probably had the best recovery rate, so would I mind getting him in there?

So Bob the Dog is now enrolled in Bad Dogs Anonymous. I drop him off every morning and pick him up every evening. It does not bother me that when I pick him up, all the staff and administration hide behind closed doors until we leave. Much.

I’m really, really hoping that this is going to be the end of it.

I’m such a fool.

 Next - Bad Dogs Anonymous

The Adventures of Bob the Dog – the Meat Market Massacre

Time to take a breather, so I'm taking a blogger break for a while. I notice that other bloggers, columnists, and cartoonists pull up things from their archives, so that's what I'm going to do.

As soon as I saw the story on the ten o'clock news I knew Bob the Dog had struck again. The manager of the Monterrey Meat Market up on Braker was describing in vivid Spanish how a pack of “...wild dogs had burst through the automatic door and laid waste to several thousand dollars of the finest steaks, chops and ribs this side of the Rio Grande.”

At least I think that’s what he said. My Spanish is not too good, but I did recognize the word “perro” multiple times and the camera did show a trail of meat products leading out the door, where – the TV reporter informed us – witnesses said there had been a pickup waiting for the ill-gotten gain to be loaded and “swore that some kind of dog was driving.” The police naturally were skeptical and the news reporter even rolled her eyes a little, but the fact remained, a pick-up truck filled with the Market’s finest product sped away from the store.

The next morning, the newspaper picked up the story and added that the truck, reported stolen from the River City Bingo parking lot, had been found abandoned in a ditch off of Sprinkle Cut-Off Road. There were a few scraps of cellophane and some blood stains in the back, but the police were quick to point out that the blood was not human in origin and that it was most likely from a fresh Porterhouse, recently liberated from the Monterrey Meat Market, scene of yesterday’s crime. It also appeared that there had been quite a bit of canine activity in the area, based on paw prints found in the muddy ditch.

Naturally, when I checked on Bob the Dog next door, he was in his place, nice as you please, and had nothing to say about any recent felonious activity, but his eyes had a glassy protein-suffused stare and his belly was again bloated. We did talk hypothetically about how a life of crime would probably not end well for a dog, but I don’t think it made any kind of impression on Bob. The attraction of fresh, red meat is a mighty hard demon to quell. He did agree that his prospects were limited. I thought he was talking about how a life of crime would quickly turn bad for him. Turns out that he was only talking about what a paucity of meat sources he had to choose from.

Next - Impounded!

The Adventures of Bob the Dog – the Corner Store Caper

Time to take a breather, so I'm taking a blogger break for a while. I notice that other bloggers, columnists, and cartoonists pull up things from their archives, so that's what I'm going to do.

Sure enough, on Friday I got a call from Raj, the manager up at the Valero Corner Store. Raj lives one street over and he’s well acquainted with Bob the Dog and said that Bob slipped into the store and wasted a rack of beef jerky and pushed over the hot dog cooker and escaped with about two dozen sizzling franks before they knew what had happened, and he had been trying to get in touch with Cole, but his phone was disconnected. Did I know where Cole was so that he could come and pay for all the damage before the home office made him call the cops?

I explained that Cole wasn’t going to be our neighbor any more, so calling the cops wouldn’t do any good, but I kept my mouth shut about Bob the Dog and the note, because I wondered if my failing to take action might somehow make me liable. After Raj hung up, I peeked over the fence and sure enough, Bob was back in the yard, fat and happy, but pretty bloated after all those freshly cooked wieners and a side of beef jerky.

We had a little talk about his adventures, but he showed no remorse and said quite frankly he was pretty tired of dry dog food and that fresh meat was now his new best friend forever. Or words to that effect. Sometimes Bob is hard to understand, what with the accent and all. We agreed that he should go on living next door as long as he could and that I would pick up some Bugle Boy dog food with “real beef morsels” as Bob allowed that was the only kind of dog food he would even consider.

I didn’t care for this turn of events, and I liked it even less when I found out that the only place in town that carried Bugle Boy dog food with “real beef morsels” was Callahan’s – way, way south – and that it cost about the same as steak at the HEB, and maybe I should just let Bob the Dog knock over Raj’s hot dog cooker every once in a while and plead ignorance of the whole thing. I knew calling Animal Control was out of the question. Bob was way smarter than any dog catcher; they had been called a half-dozen times about two brutish Pit Bulls that wandered loose up the street and the Pit Bulls – not known for finesse – had easily bested the catchers so often the City wouldn’t even send them out on that call anymore.

Besides, none of this was Bob’s fault; he had been left to his own devices and by nature Blue Heelers have active and fertile minds and if they are not kept busy, they will find their own activities – which might not fit in with conventional doggy behavior. I’m sure that’s what led to Bob’s heist of the Monterrey Meat Market.

Next - the Meat Market Massacre

School's out. Taking a break.

Time to take a breather, so I'm taking a blogger break for a while. I notice that other bloggers, columnists, and cartoonists pull up things from their archives, so that's what I'm going to do.

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