Stick Dog Wants a Hot Dog

“But it was a good guess,” encouraged Stick Dog.

“Yes. Yes, it was!” said Karen, feeling better already.

Now, Stripes and Mutt had their own ideas about that little jingling sound. Stripes’s theory was that a huge new species of miniature humans had emerged from beneath the earth and announced that they were going to take over the planet, ringing bells constantly to drive everybody crazy. Mutt’s theory was different. He thought there might be a human riding a bike and ringing the bell on the handlebar.

“Those are two very different theories,” said Stick Dog. “Why don’t we go look?”

“Should we bring weapons?” asked Stripes.

“Why?” asked Stick Dog, cocking his head.

“Because,” Stripes said, and then sighed as if this was the most ridiculous question she had ever heard in her entire life. “What if the new miniature, bell-ringing humans are just over the hilltop? What if they’re ready to charge at us with all their bell-ringing strength and ferocity? Don’t you think we should have weapons just in case?”

Stick Dog considered this question for a moment, then said, “Yes, Stripes. I think that’s a great idea. We should be prepared to meet and fight this new race of miniature, bell-ringing humans. Without question.”

“Exactly!” Stripes exclaimed.

“Unfortunately,” said Stick Dog, “we don’t have any weapons. Never have.”

“Darn it,” said Stripes.

“But if we did, we would most certainly put them to use,” said Stick Dog. “Come on, let’s go check it out.”

The five dogs ran from the creek and up the hill to investigate the jingling sound. They peeked over the top of the hill and down the other side. There, they discovered the source of that jingling bell.

It wasn’t Santa Claus.

It wasn’t a bicycle.

It wasn’t a cuckoo clock revolution.

And it wasn’t, believe it or not, a bunch of miniature humans emerging from underground to ring their bells and drive everybody crazy.

It was Peter.

Now, Stick Dog didn’t know for sure that the man’s name was Peter. But the side of his cart said “Peter’s Frankfurters.” So he just assumed that the man pushing the cart was named Peter. The cart was white, with printing on the side. There was an umbrella over the top of it. And it had four big wheels. Peter was pushing it and ringing an attached bell.

“That’s the strangest contraption I’ve ever seen,” said Poo-Poo. “Is it a car, a bike, a wheelbarrow? What?”

The five dogs peered over the hill and watched this strange man with the strange cart.

“What’s a ‘frankfurter’?” asked Karen.

“I have no idea,” said Stick Dog.

Now, I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say, “Oh, yeah, right. The dogs are reading now. They went to school and learned phonics, and they know the alphabet and they can read everything – billboards, hot-dog carts, encyclopedias. Like I’m going to believe that.”

Well, come on now. These dogs have been talking in this story for a while now. Actually, I’ve been interpreting for them, if you want to get picky. So, if they can talk, they might as well be able to read. And I don’t mean to be rude here, but you did agree not to bug me about every tiny detail. Remember?

Who knows? Maybe in the next Stick Dog adventure, they’ll all be in college studying to be engineers, teachers, and botanists.

Anyway, they can talk – and read. Okay?

The five dogs continued to look over that hill, and every couple of minutes Peter would ring that bell. Then, something happened that explained what frankfurters were to the five friends.

A boy came up to Peter and asked him something. They talked for a minute, and the boy gave him a dollar. And Peter gave him something back. The boy sniffed at it and then took a great big bite. And smiled.

“What is that?” asked Karen.

“That must be a frankfurter,” said Stick Dog.

“Can you smell that?” asked Stripes, suddenly licking her lips. “It smells superb-i-melicious.”

Stick Dog looked at Stripes but didn’t say anything. He knew ‘superb-i-melicious’ was not a word. But he also knew that if it was a word, then it would be the most accurate word to describe the wonderful aromas emanating from that frankfurter cart. His stomach began to growl even louder than before.

Stick Dog firmly stated, “We have to get some of those.”

Now, before we continue, you all know what a frankfurter is, right? It’s a fancy name for a hot dog. I’m calling them ‘frankfurters’ in this story because using ‘hot dog’ could get a little confusing – or at least a little too repetitive. There would be too many ‘dogs’ everywhere. So we’re using the word ‘frankfurter.’

And Stick Dog’s right: They really are delicious. With a little ketchup and mustard, mm-mmm. On a nice, soft, doughy bun. Maybe a little cut-up gherkin. Oh, yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. A sprinkle of salt. Maybe just a little shredded cheddar cheese on the top. Superb-i-melicious indeed.

“We need a plan,” said Stick Dog. It was just then, however, that something caught his eye as he spied the frankfurter cart as a potential food target. It was a slight movement among the branches of a maple tree. The tree itself was a few houses down the road from where Peter had parked the frankfurter cart. It was very obvious that Stick Dog had become distracted by what he saw. He continued his thought, but his speech had become monotone, and his words came out much slower. “We … need … a … plan … to … get … those … frankfurters.”

“What is it, Stick Dog?” Mutt asked as he stepped closer. He had noticed Stick Dog’s change in demeanor.

Poo-Poo, Karen, and Stripes noticed as well. There was a sudden nervousness among them. It was quite unusual, they knew, to see Stick Dog lose his focus – especially when food was involved.

“I saw something in that tree,” he whispered. “It’s about four houses down the road from Peter, the frankfurter man. In the maple tree there by the road.”

The other four dogs instantly turned their heads in that direction.

“How far up?” Mutt asked.

“About five or six branches from the bottom,” Stick Dog answered. He had not stopped staring at the spot. “On the left side.”

As everyone calculated this and peered in that specific area, a branch there shook a little and then the branch below it shook a lot – as if something had moved from one tree limb to another.

“If it’s a squirrel,” said Poo-Poo, “I’ll take care of this problem in a jiffy. That maniacal little nutkin doesn’t stand a chance with old Mr Poo-Poo on the case!”

This startled Stick Dog out of his trance. His voice and speech pattern normalised. “It’s not a squirrel,” he said quickly. Stick Dog didn’t want Poo-Poo charging out of the woods and barking up at the tree. That would definitely put Peter on alert – and ruin any chance they had of getting those frankfurters. “I saw a strange set of eyes. Not a squirrel’s eyes or a bird’s. Something different.”

They all continued to stare at those upper branches.

But only for three seconds.

That’s because, after three seconds, a pair of black eyes poked their way through some maple leaves. There was no doubt what those eyes were staring at – they were staring at the frankfurter cart. And seconds later, a narrow grey nose emerged beneath the eyes and began sniffing and twitching.

“Somebody else is after the frankfurters,” whispered Stick Dog. When he said this, the face of their competition revealed itself fully.