Stick Dog. Tom Watson

stuff.

      When it comes to my English teacher’s rules for writing, I’m reminded of a word my little sister made up when she found a worm in the yard: “barf-a-lucci.”

      While I have a feeling I’m not going to get very good grades for my Stick Dog stories, that doesn’t matter when it comes to you and me and our agreement.

      So the final thing we need to agree on is that this Stick Dog story (with the bad pictures that my art teacher doesn’t like) will also be told in a way that I like (but my English teacher doesn’t).

      Good deal?

      Excellent. Let’s move on.

      This is going to be fun.

      Stick Dog lives in the suburbs somewhere between Big City and the Forest. There are houses around, but there are also parks and playgrounds, swimming pools, streets, telephone poles, fire hydrants, and grassy lawns. He lives in a big, empty pipe that runs under Highway 16.

      For as long as he can remember, this big pipe has been Stick Dog’s home. And for as long as he can remember, he’s always been alone. He’s never lived with any other dogs. He’s certainly never had a human family that he can remember.

      This does not make Stick Dog sad at all. Maybe if he once had a human family or a brother or a sister and then suddenly found himself alone – well, then maybe he would feel sad living by himself in a big pipe out in the suburbs.

      But he didn’t – so he doesn’t.

      It is, after all, hard to miss something you’ve never had. For instance, I don’t miss waking up on the moon and going for a gravity-defying morning stroll. Why?

      Because I’ve never done it. But I bet astronauts who have actually walked on the moon probably miss bouncing around from crater to crater all the time.

      See what I mean?

      Besides, Stick Dog isn’t really alone. He has some very good friends. We’ll meet them in a couple of minutes.

      There’s no water in Stick Dog’s pipe. It’s nice and dry. And Stick Dog has decorated it with some of his favourite things. He sleeps on a comfy old couch cushion. He found it by a Dumpster behind a furniture store and dragged it home at night when nobody was watching. Stick Dog finds a lot of things this way.

      Stick Dog also has a big assortment of things to chew on – mostly tennis balls and Frisbees that he’s brought home from Picasso Park.

      All in all, his pipe is a pretty good place to live.

      He can hear crickets and toads at night. And when the sky is clear, Stick Dog leans his head out of the end of his pipe and stares at the stars and the moon. On nights like that, lying there on his cushion with a Frisbee in his mouth, Stick Dog knows that he’s got it pretty darn good.

      So, Stick Dog has a nice place to live. And he’s also got friends. Good friends. And what’s better than a good friend? Well, maybe a good friend who happens to have some Doggie Snack-a-Roos in his pocket is a little better, but that’s about it.

      When I introduce Stick Dog’s four friends, I know what you are going to say. You’re going to say, “Hey. These four friends look remarkably similar to the four types of other dogs in the last chapter.” You’re absolutely right about that. But they’re the only kinds of dogs I can draw. And please remember our deal.

      Stick Dog has four friends who stop by his empty pipe on a regular basis. There’s a poodle named Poo-Poo. Now, it’s important to know that Poo-Poo is not named after, you know, going to the bathroom. He’s named after his own name. Get it? POO-dle.

      There’s also a Dalmatian named Stripes. Stripes likes to be a little oddballish. She’s covered in spots, but her name is Stripes. See what I mean? If she was, say, all black from nose to tail, then her name would probably be Snowball.

      Stripes is the kind of dog who would look at a grey, rainy day and say something like “Let’s go on a picnic!” or “What a great day for a bike ride!” Of course, dogs don’t typically ride bikes – but you get what I mean.

      Then there’s a dachshund. Her name is Karen. This is kind of a human name, but it’s her name, and there’s not much we can do about it. It’s kind of like if your uncle was named Snoopy. You wouldn’t call him Uncle Bob. You’d call him Uncle Snoopy.

      Of course, if your buddies were around and you didn’t want them to know that your uncle’s name was Snoopy, you might just call him Uncle Man or Unc-Dude or Unc-a-Munc-a-Ding-Dong or something.

      Anyway, this dachshund’s name is Karen.

      There’s also a dog named Mutt. He’s a mutt. Enough said.

      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!”