Wee Bobby

My family has its roots in St Andrews, and I learned many of its ghost stories from my grandfather.  One of my favourites was the story of Wee Bobby.

Bobby was a little terrier who belonged to a shopkeeper in South Street.  He had a set daily routine.  After lunch he would wait until a customer opened the door and then Bobby would make his escape, scampering into the street and paying social calls to the other shopkeepers.  He would sit at the butcher's door until somebody brought him a bone.  Once he had finished or buried the bone he would then visit the bakery and do his best to look half-starved in the hope that somebody would throw him a crust.  Then, as the schools let the pupils out at the end of the day, Bobby would contrive to be making his way back home in time to have the children of the town make a fuss of him.

Time passed and Bobby grew older.  He was still a familiar figure trotting along the streets of St Andrews, paying his social calls and enjoying the attention of the schoolchildren, but he moved a little more slowly and stiffly.

One December day a blizzard hit the town.  Bobby's owner tried to keep him indoors in the warmth, but Bobby was having none of it.  As soon as the opportunity presented itself he slipped out of the door for ihis daily constitutional.  This time, however, he didn't return when the children were let out of school.  His owner fretted for an hour or two and then he shut up shop and went out to look for his pet.

Imagine his sorrow when he turned into Market Street and there, by the fountain, found a limp bundle of fur half-covered by the snow.  Bobby's loving heart had given out.


Time passed and spring came to St Andrews again.  Trees came into leaf and flowers unfurled.  One day, a small boy came racing into Bobby's owner's shop.  "Come quick!"  He cried.  "Bobby's back!"

Bobby's owner tried to explain to the boy that Bobby had been dead for three months, but the child grabbed him by the hand and dragged him out the door.  "Look!"  He cried, and pointed.

There, trotting along the street was a little terrier who was unmistakably Bobby.  Why unmistakable, you ask?  Well, you remember that I told you that Bobby died in a blizzard?  This little dog was trotting along six inches above the ground.

My grandfather swore that anyone who was lucky enough to see Bobby, the phantom dog, would enjoy nothing but good luck, so, to this day, I look very carefully at any terrier that passes me in the town.

Haven't seen him yet, though.