It was a little over 3 weeks ago that I first saw it. I was making my short morning commute from here in McSherrystown to Gettysburg via Rte. 116. I was coming up on the little rodeo that sits on the left hand side of the road–you know, the one that had the Labor Day shin dig for a while.
I was sipping on a cup of blackberry sage tea, brain still sleeping, when I saw it.
“What the hell is that?”, I said out loud to myself.
“No way!”, was my response of assurance followed by 47 seconds of laughter.
“A camel”, I said a bit dumbfounded, followed by another round of hyena-like laughter lasting somewhere around 22 and 1/2 seconds.
Now if you’re like me, you might be asking “Why in the name of all dromedaries and their cousins is there a one-humped beast out there grazing amongst the cattle?”
Or maybe it’s “How did this matted brown 4-legged creature arrive here?”
Now if you’re like me, you simply ask yourself these questions without having any intention of finding the answer to them. Finding the answers may be even more ridiculous than the site of Bob (the name I’ve given to my new-found morning-commute friend) moping around in the early morning sun.
I’ve thought about stopping in to talk with the proprietor of Bob on several occasions. Yet each time I contemplated it I said to myself “Nah…I’d rather not know. The comic relief is good enought for now.”
And that’s where I stand. I’m not going to enquire about Bob. I do not care how old he is. It doesn’t interest me if Bob is a “Bob” or if Bob is really a “Charlene”.
But maybe you do. Maybe you’ve seen him too. Maybe you want to know.
If you do, go and find out. Seek out the owner of Bob and force him to tell you Bob’s story.
Wait a minute. What if Bob’s story is a sad one? Maybe we have a “Free Bob” campaign on our hands. “Free Bob and all other animal freaks on North American soil” could be the rally cry.
Tell you what,if there is just cause to ship Bob’s hairy hindside back to whatever part of the globe he hails from, I will lead the campaign. I will sacrifice my lunacy in a monotonous daily grind so that Bob can breathe free again in his own land.
That’s where we’ll leave it. I’ll continue to drive Rte. 116 and laugh for 39 seconds Monday through Friday.
If anyone gains any insight, you know where to find me.
For the love of Bob.
(written 11 June 2000)
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