It was my usual Friday morning ritual. I sat and heavy handedly applied maple syrup to my pancake laden plate. Bob, my border terrier sat perched on the window ledge above my sofa that had quite frankly seen better days when I first had it. A little large for the sill his paws dangled precariously over the radiator behind it. It was his favourite spot claimed long ago in his puppy days, as soon as he was big enough to climb up and toast himself in the warmth of the sun or radiator depending on which was giving out the most heat.
I’d never intended to get a dog. My girlfriend had dragged me to the rescue centre. The tiny puppy lying miserably in the corner tugged on my heartstrings and a dog named Bob came home.
He was occupied in his favourite hobby, yapping excitedly at the family of blue jays in the eaves of the house opposite. He was entranced with their comings and goings wagging his tail so furiously his perch threatened to dislodge him.
I studied him fondly mid chew. He was anxious for his morning constitutional and I was running late. His lead dangled from his mouth as he continued his survey of the street, a vestige from his puppy days. His right ear was half cocked as he curiously watched the postman emptying the mailbox. I had a stack of mail I needed to post piled on the breakfast table beside me. I tutted at a few drops of milk that had broken free from the milk jug and slightly smudged the ink of one of the addresses. I was hopeful one of these job applications would lead to something. It was no fun being out of work these days.
Deciding I’d sort the dishes later I rose from the table, grabbed the nearest coat and shoes and whistled to Bob. “Come on boy, walkies!”.
This post is inspired by a daily prompt called a dog named Bob . It had to be written in 20 minutes and had to include the words, a dog named Bob, mailbox, blue jay, plate, syrup, ink.