Call me Bobby and have a cookie

We live a pretty quiet life, my dog and I. I putter around in my yard

until I’m tired and then stretch out on the couch for a little nap.

My dog sleeps so much that I occasionally prod her just to determine

that she is still among the living.

All this quiet is shredded when I am visited by my 4-year-old

great-grandsons Judge and Zack Washer. They show up, and suddenly, my

dog is tearing around the living room like a greyhound after the

mechanical rabbit. Granted, two little boys are also tearing around,

but normally the dog casts a blind eye to human activity.

“You’re going for a walk?” the dog seems to be thinking. “Wake me

when you get back -- but only if you’ve brought a treat.”

And that is the secret. The boys have cookies in their hand. Food.

The one thing that stirs any emotions in that dog’s heart. Call her

from 3 feet away, and she’s deaf. Open the refrigerator, and even if

she’s outside the house, she hears it and streaks into the kitchen

like some fat canine super hero.

When the boys visit, as soon as they walk in the house they ask,

“Can we have a cookie, Bobby?”

I probably should explain the Bobby. I grew up being called Bobby,

and I hated it. It seemed to summarize all my problems -- I was

small, I was short. The best thing about my post-high school growth

spurt was that I went from Bobby to Bob, and I staunchly avoided any

attempt by anyone to turn Bob back into Bobby.

Then my granddaughter Samantha was born. As she got to speaking

age, she needed a way to address me. I announced that I did not want

to be called Grandpa. Grandpas were gray-haired and aged. I was 56, a

mere stripling.

“What’s she supposed to do for the next 50 years -- whistle to get

your attention?” my daughter growled.

“No. She can call me what everyone else calls me,” I replied.

“Judge?” my incredulous daughter asked.

“No, Bob.”

My daughter rolled her eyes, shrugged her shoulders, then pointed

at me. “Bob,” she said to Samantha.

Samantha grinned at me. “Bobby,” she gurgled.

‘No,” I corrected her. “Bob.”

“Bobby.”

It’s difficult to argue with an infant. After about five minutes

of this, I surrendered. I have been Bobby to my family ever since.

Back to the present. As I approach the cookie jar, there are three

pairs of covetous eyes. Two belong to 4-year-old boys, the third to a

very fat beagle.

I hand the boys their cookies, and the chase is on, Cassie doing

her best to snag a cookie out of their hands, the boys trying to run

and chew and swallow before she succeeds. They go ‘round and ‘round

the room and up and down the hall at a furious pace, and I can follow

their path by the boys’ shrieks of laughter.

And then there is a loud howl. Cassie has succeeded in grabbing a

cookie. Tears follow the howl, pathetic rivers cascading from piteous

eyes until the cookie is replaced, at which point the chase resumes.

It seems like an hour. It’s probably five minutes, and finally,

the cookies are consumed. The boys rampage a bit more, then their

mother takes them off.

Silence descends on the house. The dog and I look at each other,

and then both of us lie down and take a nap.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge.

His column runs Tuesdays.