Dedication

for my family:
human, feline,
and—of course—canine

Epigraph

For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love.

—Carl Sagan

To err is human; to forgive, canine.

—Unknown

canine glossary

bed boogie: circular “dance” performed by dogs before settling into bed, probably a primitive nesting behavior

copilot: dog riding in car, often with head poking out of an open window (see also: drool flag)

crazy mutt: exuberant greeting ritual

drool flag: visible tongue protrusion, frequently displayed during copiloting or meal preparation

FRAP: frenetic random activity period (synonym: zoomies)

full wag: the happiest tail position, a relaxed circular swish, sometimes including hip wiggles

fur on alert: raised hair on a dog’s neck and back, an involuntary reaction often caused by fright or aggression

head tilt: quizzical look employed to charm gullible humans

LEAVE IT: the world’s worst command, especially when applied to food

me-ball: dried excrement thrown at observers (origin: Gorilla, informal)

playbow: body position with elbows down and rear up, signaling an invitation to have fun

rhymes-with-pet-threat: vet, an otherwise kind human armed with thermometers and needles

tailspin: (1) chase involving the flexible appendage attached to the rear of most canines; (2) (informal) an embarrassing or quixotic effort

toe-twitcher: dream (often squirrel-focused) resulting in foot movement

tug-of-war string: a long (though never long enough) piece of fabric or leather used to lead humans during walks

UFO: (1) unidentified food object, often found under kitchen tables or couch cushions; (2) unidentified floor object, hopefully edible; (3) unidentified flying object, ideally a stick, flying disk, or slobber-covered tennis ball

water bowl of power: (1) jumbo-sized ceramic dish; (2) uncomfortable human chair, generally found in bathrooms

zoomies: sudden bursts of energy, usually involving chaotic dashes through the house (informal; see also: FRAP)

One

confession

Look, nobody’s ever accused me of being a good dog.

I bark at empty air. I eat cat litter. I roll in garbage to enhance my aroma.

I harass innocent squirrels. I hog the couch. I lick myself in the presence of company.

I’m no saint, okay?

and while i’m at it . . .

I may or may not have eaten a pepperoni pizza with anchovies when nobody was looking.

Also, I may or may not have eaten a coconut vanilla birthday cake when nobody was looking.

Also, I may or may not have eaten a Thanksgiving turkey (except for the stuffing—way too much rosemary) when nobody was looking.

Nobody looking. That seems to be the common thread.

As they say on the crime shows: motive and opportunity.

robert

Name’s Bob.

I’m a mutt of uncertain heritage. Definitely some Chihuahua, with a smidgen of papillon on my father’s side.

You’re probably thinking I’m some wimpy lap dog. The kind you see poking out of an old lady’s purse like a hairy key chain. But size ain’t everything.

It’s swagger. Attitude. You gotta have the moves.

Probably I shoulda been named Bruiser or Bamm-Bamm or Bandit, but Bob’s what I got and Bob’ll do me just fine.

Julia named me. Long time ago. She’s my girl. She calls me “Robert” when I get on her nerves.

Happens pretty often, to be honest.

numero uno

There’s an old saying about us dogs, goes like this: It’s no coincidence that man’s best friend can’t talk.

Lemme tell you something. If we could talk to people, they’d get an earful.

You ever hear anyone mention man being dog’s best friend?

Nope?

Didn’t think so.

Way I’ve always figured it, end of the day, you gotta be your own best friend. Look out for numero uno.

Learned that one the hard way.

That’s not to say I don’t have a best pal. I do.

Gorilla, name of Ivan. Big guy and I go way, way back.

Gorilla and dog. Yep, I know. You don’t see that every day. Long story.

I love that big ol’ ape. Ditto our little elephant friend, Ruby.

They’re the best.

how we met

The first time I met Ivan, I was a homeless puppy. Desperate, starving, all alone.

It was the middle of the night, and I’d slipped into the mall where Ivan lived in a cage. I wandered a bit, grateful for the warmth, confused by the weird assortment of sleeping animals I found there, checking every trash can for anything edible.

There was a small hole in a corner of Ivan’s enclosure. He was fast asleep, cuddled up with a worn stuffed animal that looked like a weary gorilla.

He was snoring, and man, that guy snored like a pro.

In his open palm was a chunk of banana, and—I still get shivers when I think about this—I ate it right out of his hand.

Guy coulda squeezed his fingers shut and I woulda popped like a puppy balloon. But he just kept on sleeping.

And then—more shivers—I am either a maniac or the bravest dog on the planet, probably a little of both—I hopped up onto that big, round, furry tummy of his.

That’s right. I climbed Mount Ivan.

Crazy, I know. I have no idea what I was thinking. Maybe I was so exhausted I went a little bonkers. Maybe he just looked so warm and cozy that I figured it was worth taking a chance.

I did my bed boogie. Dogs don’t feel right till we do a quick dance before settling.

Once I had things just so, I lay down in a little puppy lump and rode the waves on that tummy like a puny boat on a great brown sea.

When Ivan opened his eyes the next morning, he didn’t seem surprised in the least to find a puppy snoozing on his belly. He refused to move until I woke up.

I think he was as glad as I was to have found a new friend.

the amazing history of man’s best friend

Before long, me and Ivan were best buddies.

We’re an unlikely pair, sure. Ivan’s calm and serene, a philosopher, an artist. I wish I could be more like that. No one’s ever accused me of being levelheaded.

Hotheaded, sure.

And I can’t talk pretty like Ivan can. I’m a street dog, after all. And proud of it.

Still, we clicked, in a way I never had with humans. “Man’s best friend”? No way. “Gorilla’s best friend”? You bet.

Seems to me the first time I ever heard that phrase—“man’s best friend”—was while I was watching TV with Ivan.

Back in the day, Ivan had this little television, and we watched a lot of stuff together. Old movies, Westerns, cartoons, you name it. Poor guy was stuck in a cage, didn’t have a lot else to do except throw me-balls at gaping humans.

Anyways. Me and Ivan, big fans of the tube. Cat food commercials. Pro bowling. Dancing with the Stars. What’s not to like?

Once we watched this special on the nature channel. It was called The Amazing History of Man’s Best Friend. Show was all about famous dogs. There were rescue dogs and therapy dogs and war dogs and fire dogs and movie dogs and this dogs and that dogs. And between you and me, most of ’em were just plain overachievers.

Then they got to this dog named Hach-something-or-other. Hatchet-toe, maybe? Seems his owner died (for the record, I object to the word “owner,” but we’ll set that aside for now), and Hach-something-or-other sat around for over nine years in the same spot at the same train station, day after day, waiting for him to return.

Thing is, the narrator guy was blabbing on and on about this dog, really over-the-top stuff: How loyal! How loving! Break out the Kleenex! Blah blah blah, wah wah wah! Man’s best friend!

They made a statue of this dog. I kid you not.

A statue of the dog who sat around nine years waiting for a dead guy.

in my opinion

That dog was a ninny.

A numskull.

A nincompoop.

i’m yours

Lemme tell you about being man’s best friend.

Being man’s best friend can mean a lot of things. Companionship. Belly rubs. Tennis balls.

But it can also mean a dark, endless highway and an open truck window.

It can mean the smell of the wet wind as hands grab the box you’re in with your brothers and sisters and you go sailing into the unkind night and still, still, crazy as it sounds, you’re thinking, But I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.

no one

That’s what being man’s best friend can get you.

A black highway.

An empty box.

And no one in the world but you.

early days

I don’t remember much about my early puppy days. It was three years ago, but sometimes it feels like three hundred. Mostly I recall fighting with my sibs for the primo meal spot. Lots of squirming and squeaking. Everything soft and milk-smelling and movable. Like we were one great big complicated animal.

I never met my dad, and my mom didn’t say much about him, except that he was trouble. Mom had a beautiful fawn coat. Chihuahua, some this, some that. Nice messy bloodline.

Mutts rule.

Mom crooned to us. Told us stories. Laid down the law.

I wonder if she knew she didn’t have much time to prepare us for the world.

We were born in a dark place. Probably under some porch stairs, I suspect, since I remember the sound of boots plodding up and down, the biting and ugly smell of human feet.

They called my mom Reo. And they fed her most days, though sometimes she had to fend for herself.

She never showed fear toward them, or respect. Indifference, I guess you’d say. Unless they tried to handle one of us. She growled then, hoping to make it clear that we were hers and hers alone.

I myself got picked up a couple times. The hands reached in, grabbed. They were rough and smelled of strange scents, bitter and meaty.

My mom’s growl made me fearless, and I wriggled and yipped. The hands shoved me back to the warm place, where I could sleep and drink and dream in safety.

Still, I understood, in my simple puppy way, that dogs belonged to humans, and that was how it would always be.

boss

My mom wasn’t much for names. She’d had a lot of litters. I guess she’d run out of ideas.

My brother “First” was, natch, the firstborn. “Runt,” my youngest bro, was the last. “Dot” had a little spot on her back, and “Yip” was always complaining. I was “Rowdy.” Goes without saying. And that left my oldest sister. We all called her “Boss.”

Boss was small but mean, with a distinctive sharp-sounding bark. She could outmaneuver any of us to the best spot for dining.

I admired her grit. Even if she did get on my nerves.

When we got a bit older, less blind, more cocky, I fought her off occasionally. But mostly Boss won. She was fearless, that pup.

alone

The truck happened without warning one night. They threw us in a box, left my mom behind. I can still hear her frantic howls.

I landed in a muddy ditch. It was a cloudy night, nearly freezing. Even the moon had abandoned me.

And the smells! Everything so wild and unknown. Animals with big jaws and bigger appetites. Birds that swooped in to kill. Death and life all mixed up together.

I searched for my siblings until the truth became clear:

I was utterly alone.

cars

The next morning I began my slow journey, moving through the tall, wet grass, my limbs stiff from the cold.

Now and then, I’d drink from a mud puddle or gnaw on some grass. By evening I was wobbly with hunger and thirst.

I followed the highway. Every time a four-wheeled creature roared by, I froze in fear. And yet—and this is what slays me—I knew that cars meant humans, and humans meant the possibility of living, just as much as they meant the possibility of dying.

the owl

Darkness had fallen when it came out of nowhere, the owl.

A shadow in a shadow.

They don’t make a sound, you know. Not a sound.

It’s quite impressive, when you think about it.

luck

Just as her talons, those marvelous weapons, raked my fur, I caught my right front foot in a small hole and stumbled.

If she’d gotten hold of my body, I wouldn’t be here. But all she managed to do was grab my tail.

Only time in my life I’ve regretted my handsome hindquarters.

I was airborne, hanging upside down, dizzy and dazed. And just crazy enough to think, Hey, I’m actually flying, before the terror hit full force.

I caught a whiff of other animals below. Later I found out they were pocket gophers, but back then I just knew I was smelling something completely foreign.

The owl must have decided the gophers would make a more satisfying meal. She let loose her grip, and I plummeted to the earth.

more luck

Maybe it was my puppy fat, or my soft bones, or my incredible good fortune.

But I didn’t die.

Didn’t even break anything.

I’d flown twice in my short life and lived to tell the tale.

will

I found a small hollow at the base of a fallen tree. Poked my nose in and got a swat and hiss from a grouchy raccoon.

Kept going. Waddling, whimpering.

Lights ahead. New, strange smells.

Kept going.

Kept going.

It’s amazing how much the sheer will not to die can keep you moving.

exit 8

I finally came to a small road curving off the main highway. Exit 8, turned out to be. A big billboard overhead had a picture of a terrifying animal on it.

Course I didn’t know what a billboard was. Didn’t know that the scary animal was a gorilla, let alone that he would become my dearest friend.

But something told me to follow the off-ramp.

And eventually I ended up at the Exit 8 Big Top Mall and Video Arcade, Home of the One and Only Ivan.

history

I made it to the mall. Slept in dirty hay by some garbage bins. The next night, I found that hole in Ivan’s cage. Stole his banana. Slept on his belly. And the rest, as they say, is history.

For two years, I lived at that seedy old place that was part mall, part circus, and all crummy.

But that was nothing compared to Ivan. He spent twenty-seven lousy years there. And our dear friend Stella, an old circus elephant, was stuck there for most of her life, too.

When Stella passed away, it nearly broke Ivan’s heart. I tried like crazy to get him through those dark days. But what really saved him, I think, was Ruby, our baby elephant friend.

Before Stella died, Ivan promised her he’d get Ruby outa that awful place. And to my amazement, he actually pulled it off.

Ivan and Ruby and a bunch of our other pals ended up going to different places, zoos and sanctuaries that knew how to take care of them. They’re with others of their own kind. And they’re loved and well cared for. It’s been over a year now since we all moved, and they seem so much happier.

Me, I lucked out. My girl, Julia, whose dad had worked at the mall, decided her family needed a dog. Who was I to argue? Two square meals, my own bed, all the belly rubs I could beg for. What dog in his right mind would say no to that?

The best part is, we don’t live far from Ivan and Ruby. I get to see ’em all the time.

I’m glad they’re nearby. And I’m thrilled they’ve settled in so well. Really. It’s a solid solution.

But it’s not a perfect one.

tennis ball

The way I understand things, it’s like this. We live on a lonely ball called Earth, and humans have basically been throwing it against the wall for so long that the poor ol’ ball is falling apart.

It’s like me with a tennis ball, chewing away until it’s nothing but pieces of slimy rubber that taste like, well, slimy rubber.

And that means there aren’t as many places left for wild animals.

Seems there are good zoos and bad zoos and good sanctuaries and bad sanctuaries, just like there are good dog families and bad dog families. The good places are trying to keep wild species healthy and safe. They don’t want endangered animals to go away forever.

They also don’t want the Earth to turn into a slimy, dilapidated tennis ball.

Although honestly, slimy rubber doesn’t taste half bad.

You should try it sometime.

The thing is, I would give anything to see my dear pal Ivan deep in the jungles of Africa, where he was born. Or to see Ruby running across the savanna with a herd of elephants, her big ol’ ears flapping in the wind.

I’d give up a mile-high pile of bacon cheeseburgers to see that happen. I really would.

But it ain’t happening. I get that, and so do they.

When you’re an animal, it helps to be a realist.

Two

dream

This morning I wake up in my cozy bed, way too early for Julia to make me breakfast. She and her mom and dad are still asleep, and even the guinea pigs are silent. My belly grumbles, and once again I curse my thumblessness.

Humans are one big design flaw. The inferior noses. The inscrutable, humdrum rumps. And don’t get me started on their—ahem—odor. But the opposable thumb idea? Yeah, that was a nice upgrade.

The cans I could open! The doorknobs I could conquer!

Anyways. I feel worried. Off.

Worry’s a waste of time. And it doesn’t fit with my tough-guy act. But sometimes I can’t seem to help myself.

Before I woke up, I’d been dreaming about Ivan and Ruby and Stella.

It wasn’t a nice dream, a fun-and-run toe-twitcher.

Nope. This one was a nightmare. A bad one.

We were swimming, all four of us, in a black, raging river. For some reason, I was in the lead. And I kept looking back, telling them I was gonna save them.

Me. Save them. Two elephants and a gorilla.

As I paddled like mad, their voices faded. I looked behind me and they’d vanished.

And then I heard it.

A faint bark.

That bark.

I woke up then, like I always do.

I did an all-over shake, trying to toss off the stench of nightmare that clung to me like shampoo after a bath.

I told myself to chill. Get a grip. Stop worrying about nothing.

And yet, some primitive part of my brain—the wolf in me, maybe—is on edge.

A lot can go wrong in the moment left to chance, the blink of an eye, the bounce of a bone.

There are so many ways the world can find to fail you.

the smell of a storm

By the time everyone else wakes up, I’ve calmed down. But the wind outside sure hasn’t.

It’s an early-fall Saturday, gusty, with scraps of sun. Clouds bouncing off each other like bunnies in a basket. Messages on the wind pouring in from everywhere. From dogs making their daily rounds, from feral cats, from anxious raccoons.

Basically everybody is asking the same thing: What is the deal with the weather today?

I already know. Weather channel was on last night, with a screen full of big, white, cotton-candy-looking swirls. Julia’s dad, George, has already taped up several windows. Sara, her mom, packed an emergency bag just in case we have to evacuate.

Another hurricane is on its way. Third this season. Not as big as the last couple, but slow-moving. I’ve seen the routine, know the ropes.

Once breakfast is done, I sit on the couch in the living room, waiting impatiently for Julia to come home so she can take me on our daily stroll. She has a dog-walking service, and she’s out walking other dogs.

I get my own private walk, ’cause she’s my own private girl.

I can practically taste the storm coming through the open window: the back-of-my-throat tingle, the metallic edge, the fizzy energy.

But it’s more than that. It’s as if the air is up to no good, sneaking up on the world and looking for trouble.

on the poetry of stink

Of course, not everybody can smell what I’m smelling. My nose is a zillion times more powerful than a human’s.

Dogs are experts at odor. Students of stink. We analyze the air the way humans read poetry, searching for invisible truths.

And we don’t just smell the good and bad stuff that people notice with their substandard schnozzes. The usual suspects: popcorn and lilacs and freshly sharpened pencils. Diapers and brussels sprouts and freaked-out skunks.

No, our noses get it all, the whole shimmery double rainbow in April. Humans, they’re lucky to get a cloudy day in November.

We get that molecule of roast beef dancing on the wind fifty miles from the tidy kitchen where it just slid out of the oven.

We get the cherry lollipop under the back seat of the Honda sixteen cars up on the highway at rush hour.

We get things humans can’t even dream of getting. We’re the ones who find the miracle earthquake baby cuddled in her crib under tons of rubble.

We’re the ones who find lost hikers in the wilderness after a quick whiff of a sweaty sock.

We can even tell when someone’s sick. We can smell seizures and cancer and migraine headaches. Try getting your guinea pig to do that.

We smell feelings, too. Sad has a sharp scent, with an undertone of sweetness. Sad smells like being lost in a winter forest as the sun goes down.

And happy? Happy is the best, but there’s a touch of wistfulness around the edges. Happy smells like bacon ice cream served up in an expensive leather shoe.

You’re going to love every minute of it, but you know it won’t last forever.

the news

Sometimes when Julia and I go for walks, I’ll brake at a corner (corners are the best for fresh news), and she’ll tug and say, C’mon, Bob, there’s nothing there.

Oh, but there is.

Here’s the thing about poop and pee. I get that humans are not into them. I see the bathroom doors shut tight. The embarrassed, downcast gazes.

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