Born sometime in the early 1900’s, somewhere in New York City, Bandit The Frug does not remember his parents or any siblings, but he does recall muddy roads, cars and horses navigating the streets at breakneck speed without turn signals, playing with his puppyhood pal, a Beagle named Digger, and the moment of realization that he, Bandit T. Frug, was. . . different. It was in 1915 that Bandit recognized he was no longer advancing in years, even though he probably stopped aging in 1903 or 1904. This wrinkle in the fabric of existence has kept him in his prime—21-28 in dog years—indefinitely. Wandering the country ever since, Bandit has had a bevy of fascinating and sometimes nerve-rattling adventures. He’s been in his fair share of animal shelters, and rarely the “no kill” type. Fortunately for the sake of his perpetual existence, there’s always been someone struck by the pure canine cuteness of a 22-pound, 14-inch high Frenchie Pug (Frug) in need of a loving home. Bandit’s had as many names as he’s had owners. In 2016, Bandit takes to the road with Johnny, a 44-year-old, bi-polar alcoholic from Bloom, Missouri. Their 11,000-mile route affords the traveling duo the pleasure of making the acquaintance of many a colorful character, including hitchhikers, ex-cons, Indians, Blacks and Whites, Christians and Jews, wolves and cougars—even a ghost and a vampire for good measure. By pure coincidence, the road trip takes place during the dreadful commotion of the final stretch of the 2016 presidential race. Never short on opinions or political incorrectness, Bandit chronicles the journey, recalling his own experiences over the past century, his feelings toward the America of yesteryear and what it’s become—for better and for worse—and his optimism and apprehension for the future.