Rumbling. The sky boils and swirls.

“Bob!” Julia calls. “Come on!”

I move to leap off my perch. To run to Julia.

I’ve done it a thousand times. But this time, I lose my footing.

I never slip. I am as nimble as Nutwit.

But the rain, the hail.

I let out a yelp as I land on Ivan’s side of the wall, splat in the mud.

“Bob!” Julia screams.

“He’ll be okay,” George says.

I can smell Julia’s fear, and George’s doubt, as he drags her away.

torn apart

Noise.

It’s all noise.

Noise that hurts. Noise like a massive truck bearing down on us, the power of its engine, the inescapable wheels, the relentless roar.

Nothing to see, nothing even to smell.

Just the terrible sound of the world disintegrating.

no way

I’m flying.

airborne

Not far, just into the nearby giraffe domain.

Not high, just enough to buzz the tops of trees.

Not long, just long enough to stop breathing.

But I fly.

I’m not alone. Half the world seems airborne. Trees, boards, bicycles, chunks of roofs, umbrellas, chairs, bits and pieces of life: it all levitates past like some horrible magic trick.

Something hits my head—a toy truck, maybe?—and I yelp in pain.

And I’m terrified, so scared I pee myself, and I’ll be the first to admit it—you try it and see how dry your underwear stays—but still.

I fly.

Not like in the box, the box with my brothers and sisters. Not like with the owl.

This is different.

This is me, Bob the dog, spending a moment as Bob the bird.

landing

It’s over.

I land—umph—hard, on my rear, and slide to a stop directly underneath Stretch, the oldest giraffe in the place.

The roar—and by now I’ve realized we’re talking a real, live tornado—vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving a vacuum.

A silence that hurts even more than the noise.

bad dog

And this is why I’m a Bad Dog.

Not Bad Dog, like I chewed your favorite slippers. Bad Dog, like I’m not a good representative of my species. Of any species.

I don’t think, Ivan! Ruby! Julia! Are they all right? I’ve got to find them.

That’s what a hero dog would do, one of those guys on the Man’s Best Friend show. Hero dogs dash into flames and dig into rubble. Hero dogs are fearless.

Nope. Not my style.

What do I do? Bob, untamed, undaunted?

I howl like a newborn puppy.

honest

I’m not hurt.

Banged up a little, sure. But nothing major.

And I don’t howl for long.

But it’s what I do.

Like I said, I ain’t a saint. But at least I’m honest about my failings.

stretch