Stick Dog Wants a Hot Dog (3 page)

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 dill pickle. 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 normalized. “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 gray 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.

“It's a bandit!” yelled Stripes.

“Shh!” said Stick Dog.

In rapid succession, the others guessed at the identity of the thing in the tree.

“It's a burglar!” said Poo-Poo. “It's wearing a mask!”

“It's a masked madman!” Mutt guessed.

Then Karen said, “It's an inchworm!”

At this, they all turned to their dachshund comrade.

“It's not an inchworm, Karen,” sighed Poo-Poo. “It's way too big. It's black and white and gray, not green. And it's wearing a mask—an evil mask of some sort.”

“No, not in the tree!” Karen giggled. “Here on the ground on this rock. I love these little guys. The way they move cracks me up. Look! Up and down, up and down, up and down. Just to go the tiniest distance. I mean, grow some legs, little fellah! You know what I mean?!”

Stick Dog stared at Karen only for a moment. She was certainly going to be occupied with that inchworm for a while. He turned to the others.

“It's not a masked madman or a burglar or a bandit,” he said.

“What is it?” Mutt, Stripes, and Poo-Poo asked in unison.

Off to the side, Karen dropped her head lower toward the rock. The others could hear her. “Up and down, up and down.” She giggled. “You're really moving now, little inchie!”

“It's a raccoon,” Stick Dog answered. “And it has its eyes on those frankfurters just like we do.”

Poo-Poo was surprised. “I thought raccoons only came out at night.”

“That's the only time I've ever seen them,” confirmed Stick Dog. “This one's different, I guess. It must be really hungry.”

“Why, that little scavenger!” Poo-Poo exclaimed. He was now more aghast than surprised. “Imagine, just imagine, what it's up to. Looking for food wherever he can find it! Stealing it! Eating it! What kind of a nasty little beast would act like that?!”

Stick Dog didn't answer, but he did smile a bit to himself.

“I have a right mind to warn the frankfurter man about this ring-tailed menace,” Poo-Poo continued. There was little doubt that Poo-Poo was greatly offended by the raccoon's interest in the frankfurters.

“It's all right, it's all right,” Stick Dog said in a calming voice. “We have a little competition, that's all. It's nothing we can't handle.”