Stick Dog Wants a Hot Dog (6 page)

Anyway, I'm strong.

But that garbage bag was real heavy, so I had to sort of drag it to the can instead of carry it. And about halfway down the driveway, it started tearing. Only I didn't know it started tearing. So by the time I got to the can, most of the garbage was spread out behind me in a line on the driveway.

And—NO!—I didn't happen to notice that the bag was getting lighter. So please don't ask.

Well, I had to go pick up all that filth and yuck with my hands. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until it was all back in the bag. I was so mad that I kicked the bag.

And all the dust and hair from the vacuum cleaner came POOFing out in a great cloud of terrible-ness right into my face.

That was the last time I had had enough.

All of a sudden, I feel like taking a shower.

So this time, it was Stick Dog who had had enough. He looked at Karen, who was still kind of strutting around about the genius-ness of her plan. Stick Dog just said, “Frankfurters don't have fur. Peter will never believe it.”

All four of the other dogs looked at Stick Dog with their heads sort of turned sideways like he was speaking a foreign language—like cat language or turtle language or pumpkin language.

“What is it?” Stick Dog asked.

They all asked at the same time, “Who is Peter?”

Stick Dog closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them slowly, very slowly. “Peter is the man over there with the frankfurter cart. Remember?”

Then all four of them started nodding their heads with great energy and enthusiasm.

“Okay. Those were four great plans—really, they were,” Stick Dog said with as much sincerity as he could muster. “But I think I have a plan that might just work, if you all agree.”

“What's your plan?” asked Poo-Poo. Stripes, Mutt, and Karen had gathered around Stick Dog to listen.

“Well, look over there. See where Peter has his frankfurter cart parked?” Stick Dog said. And before he could be interrupted, he added, “Peter is the one working at the cart.”

The four other dogs looked over at the cart and then back at Stick Dog.

“Well, somebody is drying their clothes in the yard right next to where he's parked. See the clothes and sheets and stuff flapping in the wind? And there's a basket of folded laundry too. I think we can sneak around the back of that blue house to right where all those clothes are hanging. We'll get behind one of those two sheets hanging there. As soon as he turns his head to look in the other direction, we'll pounce out from behind the laundry, grab some frankfurters, and run like crazy.”

Stick Dog looked to see the reactions of his four friends.

“What a lousy plan,” said Karen.

“All of our plans were much more sophisticated and brilliant,” said Mutt.

“What a bogus plan,” said Poo-Poo.

“Pretty simple, isn't it?” sighed Stripes.

Stick Dog gathered himself together a little bit. He wanted those frankfurters really badly. And he wanted to end this conversation almost as much. So all he said was “You're right. You're right. You're all correct. It's not a very good plan at all. It's rather simple and boring. And your plans were all so much better in so many ways. But I wonder if we could just try mine out? Could we? Are you with me?”

It was just the kind of encouragement they needed.

“Yes!” they all shouted together.

After they calmed down a little, Mutt asked, “Stick Dog?”

“Yes?”

Mutt glanced down the street, then quickly back at Stick Dog. “I think we better hurry.”

“Why?”

“That raccoon is getting closer to the frankfurter cart.”

Stick Dog could instantly see that Mutt was correct. He had been so busy listening to his friends' plans that Stick Dog had neglected to keep a watchful eye on the raccoon. It was no longer in the maple tree four houses away from the cart. It was now in a pine tree three houses away.

The others saw it, as well.

Poo-Poo couldn't stand it. “Errgh!” he snarled, and began pacing. “It's getting closer. It's going to get there first! What are we going to do, Stick Dog?”

“It's okay,” Stick Dog said. “But we do need to hurry.”

“We need to do something else too,” added Karen.

“What's that?” Stripes asked, and tilted her head.

“We need to give the raccoon a name,” she said simply.

“A name?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Karen as if this was a perfectly logical thing to do. “If we're going to have a nemesis who is trying to snatch what is rightfully ours, it needs to have a name—an evil name.”

Stick Dog could hardly believe what he was hearing. They had to hurry. He knew that raccoons were quite capable of finding and retrieving food. He'd seen enough toppled trash cans and ripped-open garbage bags to know that. He also knew that raccoons had powerful, sharp claws. He'd seen plenty of tracks in the woods and outside his pipe below Highway 16. He did not want to mess with a raccoon—and he certainly didn't want one to get the frankfurters before they did.

But instead of hustling along with their plan, they were going to waste precious time naming the raccoon. He was just about to put a stop to this nonsense when Mutt spoke up.

“I have a problem with this whole naming business,” said Mutt.

Stick Dog exhaled a little to himself. Finally, someone else saw how silly this was.

“What is it, Mutt?”

“Well, we don't know if our new raccoon enemy is a boy or a girl,” he explained. “That's going to make it difficult to come up with a name.”

Karen, Poo-Poo, and Stripes nodded in complete understanding. Stick Dog just stood there getting hungrier. He was trying not to let his frustration show.

Karen, who had come up with the whole naming idea, took charge of the conversation. “Look, let's just throw out some name suggestions for the evil raccoon and see what works best,” she said. “Remember the whole boy-girl problem as you make your suggestions. Try to stay away from names that are too girl- or boy-specific.”

This seemed to make good sense to the others. Even Stick Dog agreed, but solely because he wanted to move the give-the-raccoon-food-snatcher-a-name process along as fast as possible.

The suggestions came at a furious pace from all of them except Stick Dog.

“DespicaBeast!”

“Masked Mobster!”

“Racc-a-Doom!”

“Devil-Meister!”

“The Raccoon Typhoon!”

While Stick Dog listened to these and other suggestions, his stomach became impatient. It grumbled loudly. It was as if his body was telling him to put an end to all this naming business.

“Okay, guys,” he interjected in a firm but friendly voice. “Those are all great suggestions. But we better get moving here. The next name is the winner.”

You would think that would make them all blurt out a choice quickly. But the opposite was actually true. There was a slight hesitation as they each considered and tried to come up with something really good. But it was Mutt who spoke up first. And it was Mutt who chose the name of their new raccoon nemesis.

It was Mutt who said, “Phyllis!”

“Phyllis it is,” Stick Dog said instantly, before anyone could object. He nodded toward the house with the drying laundry in the yard. “This way, as fast as we can!”