In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Dog Named Bob.”
The following is 100% true. Except I don’t really know the dog’s name. So The Daily Post made it up for me.
I live in the country on the edge of a big city. In my yard there is an abundance of wildlife and land. The back of our house overlooks a ravine with a sometimes dry creek bed running through the bottom of it and in the summer we can see no houses through the woods. The Husband (who is a wonderful, yet occasionally obsessive man) has looked at said ravine and discussed its potential for putting in one of those weird survival things that you bury underground and stock with everything you may ever want or need. He is a handy kind of guy, having installed a new and upright mailbox at the end of our lane that is perfectly level, anchored in concrete and just the right height that I don’t have to get out of my car to get the mail. Sometimes, I see blue jays or cardinals sitting on it (we have both and they are spectacularly colorful) and find their poop later when I get the mail. And a big hairy spider lives inside. I can’t rightly ask for him to leave since his is outside of my house. Bummer.
The Husband loves to go to Costco without me and buys things – weird things – in bulk quantities. One of the things we do go through at an amazing frequency is paper plates, so we buy those in mass quantity, along with laundry detergent and K-cups for the Keurig machine. I am telling you, in case of a Zombie-pocolypse, there had better be coffee in my underground bunker! One weekday while I was not gainfully employed, he called from Costco to verify what we needed – milk, coffee creamer, protein bars, eggs, the usual. While we were on the phone, I was looking East out of the back window of the house and saw our dog, Butter, sitting next to the shed. I said to the husband “I have to go, Butter is out of her kennel!” Then I turned around and faced West where the kennel is and there was Butter, laying happily in her house in her kennel. “Never mind, Butter is in her kennel. She must have a doppelganger!” The Husband said, “Oh, that’s *Bob* a neighborhood stray.” And the conversation about shopping went on. Guess what he came home with? No protein bars, no coffee (I know where his priorities lie!), but a gallon of pancake syrup and ink for the printer we had two years ago. No lie. A gallon of pancake syrup. And two gallons of orange juice. He loves Costco. So after the Zombie-pocolypse, if you’re craving pancakes with lots of syrup, but no coffee – head on over to my bunker. It’s right behind the 4th tree to the right.