The One and Only Bob

First published in the United States of America by HarperCollins Publishers in 2020

Published simultaneously in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2020

Published in this ebook edition in 2020

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

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London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins Children’s Books website address is

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Text copyright © Katherine Applegate 2020

Illustrations and cover art copyright © Patricia Castelao 2020

Cover design by Sarah Pierson

All rights reserved.

Katherine Applegate and Patricia Castelao assert the moral rights to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work respectively.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008390662

Ebook Edition © January 2020 ISBN: 9780008390679

Version: 2021-02-16

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

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

—Carl Sagan

To err is human; to forgive, canine.

—Unknown

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

canine glossary

One

confession

and while i’m at it . . .

robert

numero uno

how we met

the amazing history of man’s best friend

in my opinion

i’m yours

no one

early days

boss

alone

cars

the owl

luck

more luck

will

exit 8

history

tennis ball

Two

dream

the smell of a storm

on the poetry of stink

the news

snickers

nutwit

spoiled

another confession

cricket bully

trust

my car thing

click

options

full wag

good words, bad words

clock versus moon

the shelter

droolius

forgiveness

the art of human watching

puppy eyes

mr. oog

the park

change

my inner wolf

kimu

enrichment

walls and bad guys

gift

ivan

marriage

tiny but tough

not talking

brave

ruby

ruby’s family

ivan’s art

on the subject of chimps

a very handsome dog

the beginning

torn apart

no way

airborne

landing

bad dog

honest

stretch

aardvarks

sounds

smells

surveying the damage

baby sloth

make no sudden moves

mutt versus wolf

gorilla world

help us!

kudzoo

an idea

team elephant

what’s out there

not moving

xena

dragon

hugging

loose

cpr

no

miracle

gorilla ghost

wolf on the run

shots fired

jungle

a situation

never

one place

a split second

on my way

Three

looking

what if

six

relieved

coward

the wind

enough

my paddles

inside

the return of snickers

alive

catching up

tough

not right

evacuate now!

preparing for the worst

a question

romeo

an interesting life

hey

giant monkey and sea monster

to safety

then, to my surprise

yay

traffic stop

lightning and fireworks

another bridge

hero

cartoons

not a movie

do not let go

kimu again

how

gone

first aid

the truth

forever

rescue

Four

aftermath

riddle

working on it

snickers, again

a visitor

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Back Ad

About the Author

Books by Katherine Applegate

About the Publisher

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.

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