Just Bob

   We made the heart wrenching decision to put down our sweet old dog, Bob, yesterday. Georgia was the reason we had Bob. When she was 5 she begged us "PLEASE, can I have just a little bit of dog?" And I said "Sure, you can have a tail." Um. Not a good response to someone who takes things literally. Hey, live and learn, right? The girls and I set out to our local no-kill shelter 10 years ago looking for a "young, small dog", so it was rather shocking to Brad when he returned home and found us with 65 pound, 2-4 year old Bob, who couldn't hide the fact that he had more than a little pit bull in him. Bob first came to us as "Billie Bob", which we found far too redneck, so we shortened it pretty creatively to just Bob. The vets office never did change it in their files. So I always had to steel myself for "those looks" from the other humans (and sometimes a cat or two) when they called him in to an exam room. They ALWAYS used a super-hopped-up southern accent when they called his name too! He looked the part of a redneck, really. Half pit bull, half....I dunno, I liked to say lab. Labs are well thought-of 'round here. So I decided he was part lab. It took the sting out of saying "part pit bull".  Brad pulled me out of the kids earshot and said "We can not keep this dog." But his mind was changed after walking him around the neighborhood that night, where they encountered a ferocious chow walking his owner. The chow went berserk when it saw Bob -lunging and barking, and straining at the leash. Bob didn't say one word back to that rude creature. Instead he hid behind Brad. Gentle giant. Deal sealed.

"Ohhh, Bob!"

  When I told Emily, Maggie and Georgia the day before that it was time to let Bob go, we all cried. I was a bit surprised that Georgia was showing so much emotion, but unlike the rest of us who want to just cry when we cry, Georgia talks through her tears. She was genuine in her grief, yet was attempting to rationalize and reason at the same time. "At least he will not be in pain anymore. And also not so much dog hair." Yeah, that *is* true. Surviving Bob (also known as: Bobsled, Bobbaloo, Robert Ferdinand - after Ferdinand the Bull, and Bobert)- besides us humans-are another dog, Charlie (aka Chuckles, Chuck Roast, Charles- for formal occasions), and three cats: Sadie, Bart and Sanford. (respectfully known also as: Sadiekins, or Muffin; Black Bart, or Bartemius Crouch (or just Barty Crouch); and Fatty.) He goes on to join his cat friends Kee Kee and Henrietta and the guinea pig, whose name I suddenly- and shamefully- cannot recall. (WAIT! He was black, and Maggie named him... "Ashes"!!....I think....yeah....we didn't have him very long before he got a bad lot of guinea pig feed and, well, our vet was valiant in her efforts, but there was no helping him.)

So we freed Bob to frolic with his old cat and dog buddies who had gone to heaven before him. But I've been thinking...cat heaven and dog heaven: are they two different places, apart from people heaven? Or just fenced off areas of people heaven? Like a dog park. Will Bob need a passport to be able to see Kee Kee and Henny? If they are separate I think dogs and cats should have a third option. There really ought to be a spot for dogs who like cats, and cats who like dogs, because Bob was an equal opportunity kinda guy. He got along with all creatures! Well, with the possible exception of that disemboweled, decapitated squirrel we once found on the bathroom rug. Although forensic evidence never could totally place Bob at the scene, so we weren't certain he was the perp. I wouldn't count him out as an accomplice to one of the cats, however, or to Charlie. Bob was easily led. Whatever scheme Charlie came up with, Bob was all in. Charlie was the brains, Bob the brawn."Bob, dude, we can totally get out of this chicken wire the humans call "a fence". Dig....HERE!" And Bob would dig. Occasionally he'd dig a hole just big enough for Chuck Roast to stuff himself through, and Bob would be left behind holding the proverbial bag. With the telltale sandy dirt ground under his nails, and dusting his snout like he'd just eaten a dozen powdered donuts. Which he was also known to do. Ok, not powdered donuts, but blueberry muffins. For a brief time we called him Blueberry Bob. This was just after we'd adopted him -Charlie wasn't on the scene yet so we know Bob was the brains behind this one. I'd baked several dozen blueberry muffins and left them on the counter to cool while I went out on an errand. I returned home to find half a dozen muffin papers scattered around Bob's bed. Completely intact. As if he'd suddenly developed opposable thumbs that allowed him to carefully unpeel each muffin paper before delicately popping the moist little morsel in his mouth.


 Along with baked goods, Bob also loved going to the beach! He'd bound down to the shore, lap up a gallon of good old Mobile bay water, and then throw it up on a rug back at the house. There is the most wonderful little beach just down at the end of our street. We haven't utilized it like we did when Bob and the girls were younger. Of late some *older* kids have discovered this nearly secluded site and begun using it for rather dubious purposes. It wasn't unheard of 10 years ago to stumble across empty beer cans, or poorly tamped-out bonfires, or even condoms down on Our Little Beach. But those have become ubiquitous sights now, along with the occasional hypodermic needle, and slumbering Scene Kid. Or are they Hipsters? or maybe Rastafarians? I never can get all those sorted out into the right categories! My girls roll their eyes and sigh at me when I ask, then try to explain all of the differences again, to no avail. I never remember. I suppose I really don't need to burn that into my memory, I just need to know enough to give a brief description to the cops. Then I put on my best Gladys Kravitz and scream, "HEY, YOU KIDS! GET OFFA MY LAWN...er...BEACH!"

Alas, however, it is not "our" beach. It's public. But the police don't police it because to get to it, one must huff down a flight of 76 steps, trudge through a fire swamp, and then plod across....SAND. And sand is sandy. And gets into your shoes. Ew. And then one must reverse the trek back through the swamp, across narrow planks of scavenged wood, UP those 76 steps, all while attempting to wrangle a dozen handcuffed teens. It was those endless stairs which eventually prevented Bob from accompanying us to the bay. I doubt he could ever have scared off the pesky teens, though. He was a friend to all, and all were friend to him. "You wanna rob our house!? SURE! C'mon in! *wag*wag*wag*" Unless the robbers were wielding hammers. Then Bob would probably run and hide behind the couch. He was afraid of tools. We don't like to speculate on why.

There were so many more things that Bob loved: car rides through the school pick-up line, rain, cat poop (oh, hush, your dog eats it too!), and visitors! I won't attempt to list more, this post would be days-long. Georgia informed me that it would "take a few years" before she was over the passing of her "first dog". Of course her sense of time and space is somewhat skewed, but I have to agree with her here. And we have tons of great memories of Bob to draw on as the years pass. He was a Good Dog. The Best Boy. He was Bob.

See ya, buddy!