A Beagle Named Bob

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Dog Named Bob.”

Start: 1210 local time.

It was a cool, clear spring Sunday morning, and like every Sunday since the snow melted, I was having my usual Sunday breakfast—a plate of pancakes and syrup on the porch table. Bored with my lack of attention, Bob, a slow moving, overweight beagle, walked down the steps and across the lawn to make his daily sniff at the base of the mailbox post to determine if any of his friends had been by during the night. As he turned to come back to the porch, a bluejay made a swooping attack run from a limb in the dogwood tree. It was a ritual that they engaged in every morning since the beginning of spring. I had been keeping notes on their interaction almost daily, but this morning, the ink in my pen was gone, and I turned my attention back to the last bit of pancake.

(Now, if it had been “cat” and “mockingbird,” I would have even had a photo to go along with the story.)

End: 1220 Local time.

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