The One and Only Bob. Katherine ApplegateЧитать онлайн книгу.

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.