Daily Prompt: A Dog Named Bob
You have 20 minutes to write a post that includes the words mailbox, bluejay, plate, syrup, and ink.
And one more detail… the story must include a dog named Bob
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Abby growled as she grabbed a clean plate from the dishwasher for her freshly toasted waffle. “Pass me the syrup, will you … please?”
Martin sighed and hobbled to the fridge to take out the maple syrup. “What do you mean? It’s all a matter of opinion … or taste,” he winced. “I simply don’t like cold syrup on my waffles. It tastes horrible.” He handed her the sticky bottle and heaved himself back on the bar stool upon which he’d been perched.
“Well, I’m afraid you’ll just have to warm it up yourself,” she said forgetting how wobbly he was. “I’ve just realized I need to pick something up from the mailbox. A notice was left at the door yesterday that the package I’ve been waiting for has finally arrived.” Abby showed Martin the notice. “Will you look at that? You’d think the post office could afford to use indelible ink. It’s so faint as to be almost illegible!”
Her fiancé gave the piece a once-over and growled. Not about the running ink, but about the fact he had to warm up his own syrup.
“Are you going, then?” he asked Abby who’d become distracted by a bluejay flitting and flying around the bubble rock in the back garden.
“Are you going to the mailbox or can I live in hope you’ll look beyond yourself long enough to be able to heat up some maple syrup for me? You know I can barely move with this torn calf muscle.”
Abby rolled her eyes and smiled apologetically. “Well, that’ll teach you for trying to play a shot you have no business making after years away from the game. Why take up tennis now? Can’t you do something normal … like dog walking? That’s great exercise at our age.”
“You know I don’t have time for a dog of my own right now.”
“But your older neighbour, Mr. Samuels,” she defended, “has a dog … you know the one … a mutt named Bob, of all things, … and needs help walking him occasionally. You could do that … on the weekends. I’d even come with you. I love dogs!”
“Then why don’t you walk him?”
“We’re not talking about me. I have plenty to be getting on with. You, on the other hand, need more exercise that doesn’t involve you throwing yourself across a grass court and getting injured in the process.” Abby paused in an effort to appear thoughtful rather than nagging. “Once you’re walking better you might approach Mr. Samuels to see if you can help him with Bob. He’d probably appreciate that.”
“Who? Mr. Samuels, or Bob?”
“Both, I dare say …” Abby grinned and made a beeline for the front door.
Without thinking Martin poured cold syrup onto his hot waffle and reluctantly admitted to himself that Abby was probably right ~ that he had overextended himself. At 51 he was no longer a spring chicken and should probably limit himself to more casual physical pursuits. Golf wasn’t so bad as an option. Neither was walking the neighbour’s dog.
“Abby, where are you going?”
Abby stopped, sighed and turned to look with affection at her deflated fiancé.
“To quote the great Gloria Pritchett ~ and I thought we still had a few years until the mind started to go.” She smiled, “Here … let me make you a fresh waffle and heat up your maple syrup first before I pick up my package.”
Thanks for visiting …
©Dorothy Chiotti … Aimwell CreativeWorks 2015