Bob

by:  George Davis

 

The girl paused in front of the chicken cage, retrieved some tidbits she had saved from the restaurant, and fed them to the dog inside.  The sailor watched, but said nothing, at first.

Then he asked, “What’s the dog’s name?”

“Bob,” she answered.  Bob was not a large dog.  He had short, white hair.

They went inside the house.

The sailor produced a liter bottle of Dewar’s White Label and said, “This is for your father. Is there something you would like before the ship leaves?”, he asked the girl.

“Could you bring me some Sangria?”, she replied.

“Sangria???  Wine?  Sure.”, the sailor said.

Three months later…

The ship had gone and returned.  The sailor and the girl walked hand in hand to the house. While she paused, fumbled for her key and unlocked the door, the sailor stared for a moment at the empty cage.

As they entered the house together, the sailor noticed that on the table was an empty half gallon Sangria bottle with a stub of candle stuck in it.  There was an unopened bottle of Dewar’s on top of the cupboard.  The sailor opened the whisky and poured a little into two jelly glasses.  There was no ice…

He handed her a glass and picked up the other for himself.  He asked, “Where is Bob, did something happen to him?”

“Bob?  Oh, we ate Bob!”

George the Sailor

 

George Davis was raised on a small farm in the breaks of the Republican River in Nebraska.  He graduated from an electronics technical school in Denver, Colorado, then worked for a year in an electronics assembly factory in Dallas, Texas.  He was laid off when the company lost a government contract.  He joined the Navy and spent 19 years of a 24-year career forwardly deployed to the western Pacific.  He is now retired on a hobby farm on the dissected plain of the Buffalo Commons, driving a school bus to cover the expenses of farming.