In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt “A Dog Named Bob.”
On Bluejay Street stood a lonely house with a mailbox, the street was called Bluejay because it was like a haven to these birds. At the end of the street was a house with a man, his wife, their son and their beloved Alsatian, which they named Bob.
Bob was a friendly dog, always darting in and out of the rose bushes in chase of the birds or marking territory at the mailbox.
Sometimes he’d play with his little master, who would spread out a white sheet, put some ink in a plate and Bob would step in this and run on the sheet.
It was a happy thing, because then they would go inside where his feet would be washed and he’d be given a plate of syrup.
Strange, I know
But that’s what happens when you live on Bluejay Street with a mailbox, and a sin who likes to play with ink with Bob the dog and then feed him syrup.
P.S: the image is my new puppy, Allie.