Bob the Dog

My sister has a just adopted a four year old dog called Bob, a greyhound. It is feisty, and reared as a hunting dog, it will chase down squirrels and birds. One day it saw a bluejay and practically ran up a tree to catch it. He was probably dreaming of a plate of tasty bird. Anyhow he is well fed on a mixture of that wet, syrup-like meaty stuff and dry crunchy stuff. Boy can he eat. I suppose it is for all that running around. My sister thinks that he might run away when she takes him on walks, so most of the time she keeps him on leash. If he does run away, and is picked up by a shelter, they can identify him, not only by his nametag, but with a microchip. When I visit him now, he seems to recognise me. I bet his memory is more indelible than ink. My sister has a task infront of her though: to look after a dog so sensitive.

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

<a href=””>A Dog Named Bob</a>

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