Читать книгу Stick Dog - Tom Watson - Страница 7

Stick Dog has a nice home and good friends.

But when it comes to being a dog, there’s something else that’s really super-important. I bet you can guess what that is. If you’re a dog, you can almost certainly guess what it is.

Then again, if you’re a dog and you’re reading this story, then you should probably stop reading right now. You may not know this, but dogs that can read are extremely rare. And that means you have the opportunity to be rich and famous and have all the rawhide bones and puppy snicker-snacks in the world. So get yourself down to the local television station and start reading in front of everybody.

Now, if you’re not a dog reading this story, I’m going to assume that you are a human. If you are, then try to guess what’s just as important (maybe even more important) to a dog than a safe home and good friends.

Give up?

The answer is food. Food, food, food, food, FOOD.

Don’t be embarrassed if you didn’t guess right. One time my first-grade teacher asked me what holiday happens at the end of November. And I said, “Pumpkin pie!”

What? I like pumpkin pie. So sue me.

My point is, don’t feel bad if you didn’t guess that FOOD was the answer. It happens. It’s no big deal. That said, if you did guess that FOOD was the answer, it doesn’t exactly make you the next Mega-genius of the World or anything. It’s a pretty obvious answer – even if you’re not a dog.

Anyway, Stick Dog and his friends are constantly in search of food. And that’s what this adventure is all about.

This story takes place in the summer. And when you live in the suburbs and it’s the summer, it can mean only one thing. (Actually, it can mean a lot of things, like: It’s time to cut the grass or Let’s go play in the sprinkler or If another mosquito bites me, I’m going to be all out of blood.)

But for Stick Dog, summer in the suburbs means humans are barbecuing. And when humans are barbecuing, the air is filled with the aroma of tasty, sizzling hamburgers. And tasty, sizzling hamburgers are about the best things in the world to Stick Dog.

On this particular afternoon, all of Stick Dog’s buddies – Poo-Poo, Mutt, Stripes, and, of course, Karen – have stopped by. And because the wind is blowing at seven miles per hour from the southwest, the barbecue aromas from Picasso Park are drifting right past the empty pipe beneath Highway 16.

And Stick Dog has caught the scent. He’s got to get a hamburger.

Now, there are two things that can happen as I tell you this story. I can use dog language; you know: yips, yaps, barks – that kind of thing. Or I can interpret all of the dog language for you.

This translation will work for all human readers. And if you’re a dog reader, you really should be at the television station by now.

So, here goes.

“I’ve got to get a hamburger,” Stick Dog said, his stomach rumbling a bit as the meaty smoke wafted past his nose.

“How?” asked Poo-Poo.

“We’re going to need a plan,” Mutt added. “Humans aren’t just going to give us hamburgers.”

“Certainly not. They’re selfish. They want to keep all the hamburgers for themselves.”

Stick Dog shook his head in disgust, muttering under his sweet-smelling dog breath about how humans never share anything. He rose off the couch cushion and, shaking the dirt from his fur, said, “Let’s follow the smell, find the hamburgers. Find the hamburgers, make a plan. Execute the plan, eat the hamburgers.”

“Eat the hamburgers,” Stripes added, “roll around in the dirt scratching our backs.”

“Umm, yeah. Whatever,” said Karen, scrunching up her face.

All of them trailed Stick Dog, who followed the scent towards Picasso Park. But as they went in search of some smoky hamburger goodness, their mission was interrupted by something very bad. Something was lurking in the Forest.