Bobbi. Those Lion Eyes

There are some dogs you gradually fall in love with.

And then there are dogs who look at you once and apparently decide the matter for everyone.

Bobbi was one of those dogs.

Anita had recently lost her dog, Tuxedo, to cancer. The loss left the kind of enormous dog-shaped space that so many of us understand, and Anita knew she wanted another dog in her life.

A friend recommended a rescue.

So she went to have a look.

And there was Bobbi.

No history. No story explaining where he had come from or what his life had been like. The vet estimated he was somewhere around three or four years old.

But Bobbi had extraordinary golden eyes.

“Lion eyes,” Anita calls them.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

And that was pretty much that.

“It was love at right look.”

No history. No hesitation.

For a dog whose past was unknown — and who had apparently spent more than a month on his own before being rescued — Bobbi did something remarkable on his very first night with Anita.

He slept on his back.

Stomach exposed. Neck exposed. Completely vulnerable.

It was as though he already understood something Anita hadn’t needed to explain:

I’m safe here.

There was no long period of convincing Bobbi that this was home.

He seemed to know.

And, as it turns out, Bobbi settling in was perhaps never going to be the problem.

Bobbi taking over may have been more likely.

Part dog. Part gymnast.

Anita suspects Bobbi may have had another career before they met.

Gymnast.

He can walk on his hind legs. He folds himself into positions that appear to contradict basic canine anatomy. And judging by the photographic evidence Anita has supplied, Bobbi regards the normal rules about how dogs are supposed to sit, lie or generally arrange their limbs as loose suggestions.

He is also stubborn.

Protective.

A little watchdog.

And extremely affectionate.

He will happily lick you to death, and when Anita is in bed, Bobbi likes to crawl his way up her legs until he reaches his preferred destination:

right on her chest.

Personal space, apparently, was not included in the adoption agreement.

The Bobbi security service

Bobbi also owns a braided bone.

But simply having a treasured possession isn't quite enough.

He gives the bone to Anita to keep safe.

Then, at some later point known only to Bobbi, he returns to retrieve it.

And hides it under a cushion.

We can only assume Anita's performance as temporary bone custodian is subject to regular review.

A typical day with Bobbi

There really isn’t one.

“There is nothing typical about Bobbi,” Anita says.

He starts with an hour-long morning walk, heads out again for around 45 minutes in the afternoon, and clocks up another hour at about six in the evening.

At home, he has three storeys to patrol.

There is an elevator, which Bobbi will use with Anita when he happens to be feeling lazy.

Otherwise, he is up and down those stairs throughout the day — supervising, following, watching and generally ensuring that nobody forgets there is a Bobbi in the house.

And should things fail to proceed according to Bobbi's expectations?

There may be a hissy fit.

Anita describes her fur baby as:

“Demanding, always under foot asking for something.”

Which sounds suspiciously like a dog who knows he landed on all four paws.

Every dog deserves a chance

When Anita talks about rescue dogs, her philosophy is wonderfully simple:

Every dog deserves a chance.

She remembers looking at Bobbi at the rescue and knowing he wouldn't be there for long.

“He was so cute,” she says. “His eyes just spoke to you.”

Perhaps that's the heart of Bobbi's story.

We don't know what happened before those golden eyes met Anita's.

We don't know where he had been, what he had experienced or why he found himself alone.

But we know what happened next.

He found a home where he could sleep on his back on the very first night.

Where someone would faithfully guard his bone until he decided to hide it somewhere better.

Where there are long walks, chest cuddles, conversations with a human who freely admits she doesn't speak dog, occasional elevator rides and ample opportunity for gymnastics.

And most importantly, where he is safe.

Happy.

And, as Anita puts it, “loved to forever.”

So if Bobbi could say something to that younger version of himself — the little dog out there on his own, with no idea what was coming next?

Anita thinks it might go something like this:

I am so happy to have a mom I can manipulate — and almost always get my way.

We have a feeling Bobbi would consider that a very happy ending indeed.