Stick Dog Wants a Hot Dog. Tom Watson

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      Karen said, “I think I know what that sound is.”

      “What is it?” Stick Dog asked.

      “It’s a giant flying cuckoo clock. Some of those things jingle. Maybe the little bird that pops out of the door and rings the bell when the hour changes has taken over the clock. And maybe it’s flying somewhere above us, jingling its little bell whenever it wants – even if the long hand isn’t straight up, meaning it’s whatever o’clock! Maybe it’s a cuckoo clock revolution!”

      Stick Dog looked at Karen. Then he looked at her some more. “I must tell you, Karen,” Stick Dog began. “I’m very impressed that you know how to tell time.”

      “Oh, sure. It comes naturally to me,” Karen said, puffing out her little dachshund chest. “I know all the o’clocks. Two o’clock. Seven o’clock. Fifty-three o’clock. Tomato o’clock. All of them!”

      “I see,” Stick Dog said very slowly. He then waited a few seconds and added, “I really like your idea about the cuckoo clock revolution and everything. It might be absolutely right. In fact, it probably is. But I was just wondering – Are those birds inside cuckoo clocks actually alive? Or are they just little, carved, wooden models?”

      Karen whispered, “Little wooden models. I guess it’s not a cuckoo bird revolution after all.”

      “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