He was snoring, and man, that guy snored like a pro. He was fast asleep, cuddled up with a worn stuffed animal that looked like a weary gorilla.

There was a small hole in a corner of Ivan’s enclosure. 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. It was the middle of the night, and I’d slipped into the mall where Ivan lived in a cage. The first time I met Ivan, I was a homeless puppy. That’s not to say I don’t have a best pal. Way I’ve always figured it, end of the day, you gotta be your own best friend. You ever hear anyone mention man being dog’s best friend? If we could talk to people, they’d get an earful. There’s an old saying about us dogs, goes like this: It’s no coincidence that man’s best friend can’t talk. She calls me Robert when I get on her nerves. Probably I shoulda been named Bruiser or Bamm-Bamm or Bandit, but Bob’s what I got and Bob’ll do me just fine. The kind you see poking out of an old lady’s purse like a hairy key chain. You’re probably thinking I’m some wimpy lap dog. Definitely some Chihuahua, with a smidgen of papillon on my father’s side. That seems to be the common thread.Īs they say on the crime shows: motive and opportunity. I may or may not have eaten a pepperoni pizza with anchovies when nobody was looking.Īlso, I may or may not have eaten a coconut vanilla birthday cake when nobody was looking.Īlso, I may or may not have eaten a Thanksgiving turkey (except for the stuffing- way too much rosemary) when nobody was looking. I’m no saint, okay? and while i’m at it . . . I lick myself in the presence of company. Look, nobody’s ever accused me of being a good dog.

The one and only bob book