One day his dog would be discovered in a shopping mall and become famous enough to pad down a red carpet. That's what Bob hoped for, every single ticking second. Thanks to his life-long diet of Disney happy endings and magazine fairytales, this seemed like an uncrazy idea. In fact, this goal seemed as normal as a bowl of Chum.
From all the glossies and weekly rags he read, it seemed scouting agents were a native shopping mall species - seen only at food court escalators and nowhere else. They lived only to pounce on unsuspecting teenagers, these physical overachievers so blinkered about their own good looks that someone actually had to tap them vigorously on the shoulder and say, "you've got a face that can pay off my mortgage, and a mansion or two. Have you thought about just flashing a look in the right direction as a career?"
This kickstart to fame happened to the most dopiest of soapie stars and eating-disorder-a-dozen models, so why not Fido? He had more cutes than that Brazilian supermodel - the one discovered in a shopping mall in her teens - who now earned $1000 a footstep.
Bob imagined his dog becoming the face of fast food endorsements and kids cereals; sipping puppacinos and wearing gold-plated tags. He'd have his own doggy entourage and get his own dog-style holiday ranch. He'd smoke dog cigars and not cause too many litter-paternity scandals, hopefully. All it would take was one well-placed glance from a dog talent agent - she'd fall in love with Fido and it would all shoot off from there.
So when Bob wasn't installing and testing fire alarms, he spent his time circling the malls with Fido. Technically, he wasn't allowed to bring his dog into any of the shops, but Bob found that dogs had a licence to do anything, if they were cute enough. Lots of giggly kids would hone in to pat Fido's fur, which Bob felt mixed about - they were obscuring his presence, yet their racuousness and squeals also turned heads in the right direction too.
The years would zip by, and Fido grew older and no more famous. Bob began to get anxious. He considered entering him in a dog show - then dismissed it as showy and a cheat's way to score fame. Turning him into a rescue dog was another possibility - after all, Drew Barrymore's Flossie was a plain stray but ended up with a $3 million trust after saving her from a fire.
The only long-term result of the power walks around the mall turned out to be Bob's need for new runners. The days became one long dull repeat of the others. And eventually, a store owner asked Bob if Fido would like to sit in his window and help publicise a new kids book about a runaway dog that becomes a superstar - as written by the Brazilian model who was proving her mettle as the serious writer of 8-page picturebooks. They could dress up Fido in fake-bling and give him an inflatable dog mansion to sit in - he could pretend to be at the top of the canine A-list.
Bob said no. Fido was too good for a mere suburban mall window and this faux-fame was a knock-off when Bob craved the genuine thing. Fido would go further than this, there was no doubt. Someone just had to flash him a look in the right direction.
