DOG LOTTERY MEGA-WINNER
Given that all Dog Drops are exhausting, this Post has taken some time to produce, but Concerns Lost and Found Objects, Unnecessary Appendages, International Adoptions, Missed Flights, Effective Letter Writing, Small Dogs, Junior Hockey, Bad Dogs, Strange Basements, Lucky Dogs, Wasted Fossil Fuel, Caffeine, Cruise Control and Home Sweet Home.
Bosnian Bob
In Sarajevo he lay in the street for three days before rescue. They could not sew his tail back on. He missed his first flight from Germany when the delivery van got the departure time wrong. He chewed up an orthodontic retainer back at the Frankfurt foster's. He made his flight from Berlin the second time.
He was delivered from JFK to a farm on the Old Connecticut, was given marrow bones and slept on the bed. They petted him, brushed him, smeared ointment on his infected nose, counted the missing pads on his paw, penned a letter to the adopting Canadian family: "If you don't want him, perchance, we'd like him back. "
The parting was sad at the farm, but Bob had come to expect departures.
500 miles across New York, snow and cold. "This is Canada," his driver told Bob, "your new home sweet home," swigging down tea after tea.
In Toronto, 20 lb Brutus did like Bob at all, a shy dog with an overbite. Neither did the 5-year old, a sandy-haired boy, who Bob mistook for a sheep. Neither did the fat black cat. Neither did the husband, who left for work at 5 am, a construction site at 40 below. He was reading the farm letter over and over. "'... lots of room,' says here, 'room to run.'" The wife nodded, said she loved animals, said she fed squirrels on the deck from her palm. Bob's driver ate peanuts, watched junior hockey on the couch, which was better junior hockey than anywhere on Earth.
Then the fight broke out: Brutus and Bob, Bob and Brutus.
Bob and his driver slept in the basement.
500 miles across New York, snow and cold. "This is the USA", his driver told Bob, "your new home sweet home," swigging 5-hour energy drinks.
On the farm, the bed was warm. The Connecticut tried to freeze, but couldn't. The marrow bones were just where he'd left them.
R.I.P
To become a guest blogger yourself, write a Fish Obituary (or reptilian, mammalian, etc.) to me at robinmclean0@gmail.com or comment below.
![Share](https://go.authorsguild.org//static.addtoany.com/buttons/share_save_171_16.png")
Bosnian Bob
In Sarajevo he lay in the street for three days before rescue. They could not sew his tail back on. He missed his first flight from Germany when the delivery van got the departure time wrong. He chewed up an orthodontic retainer back at the Frankfurt foster's. He made his flight from Berlin the second time.
He was delivered from JFK to a farm on the Old Connecticut, was given marrow bones and slept on the bed. They petted him, brushed him, smeared ointment on his infected nose, counted the missing pads on his paw, penned a letter to the adopting Canadian family: "If you don't want him, perchance, we'd like him back. "
The parting was sad at the farm, but Bob had come to expect departures.
500 miles across New York, snow and cold. "This is Canada," his driver told Bob, "your new home sweet home," swigging down tea after tea.
In Toronto, 20 lb Brutus did like Bob at all, a shy dog with an overbite. Neither did the 5-year old, a sandy-haired boy, who Bob mistook for a sheep. Neither did the fat black cat. Neither did the husband, who left for work at 5 am, a construction site at 40 below. He was reading the farm letter over and over. "'... lots of room,' says here, 'room to run.'" The wife nodded, said she loved animals, said she fed squirrels on the deck from her palm. Bob's driver ate peanuts, watched junior hockey on the couch, which was better junior hockey than anywhere on Earth.
Then the fight broke out: Brutus and Bob, Bob and Brutus.
Bob and his driver slept in the basement.
500 miles across New York, snow and cold. "This is the USA", his driver told Bob, "your new home sweet home," swigging 5-hour energy drinks.
On the farm, the bed was warm. The Connecticut tried to freeze, but couldn't. The marrow bones were just where he'd left them.
R.I.P
To become a guest blogger yourself, write a Fish Obituary (or reptilian, mammalian, etc.) to me at robinmclean0@gmail.com or comment below.