The Odorous Adventures of Stinky Dog

by James Howe

  Propelled by a jet stream of wickedly smellful fumes, Stinky Dog surveyed the landscape below him. “What a great view!” he said to a passing bird, who said tweet in response and then went to the bathroom.

  “That is so gross,” Stinky Dog commented.

  “You’re calling me gross?” said the bird. “Try getting downwind of yourself and see who’s gross.”

  Stinky Dog never knew birds could be sarcastic.

  OOOOOORRRRROOOOO!

  SKREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

  “There!” the bird shouted. He would introduce himself later as Dean.

  “I’m on it!” said Stinky Dog, letting the bird know who was in charge. “Look! The train is going to go off the tracks! We’ve got to do something!”

  “But what can we do?” asked the bird. “I am only one small sparrow in a world gone mad, one tiny voice in a sea of voices, one—”

  “We don’t have time for that!” Stinky Dog snapped. “We’ve got to save the people on that train!”

  With eyesight as sharp as the black key above middle C on a finely tuned concert piano, he was able to make out a piece of bent rail. If he didn’t get to it fast, the train would go off the track and . . .

  The terrible unspoken rest of that sentence hardened his resolve as he took a nosedive straight for the bent rail and thought incredibly stinky thoughts.

  “P. U. to the twentieth power!” he heard the bird say behind him.

  Who cared what a stupid bird had to say? He might have smelled like the world’s biggest compost heap, but it was working! Waves of SUPER-STENCH passed through the air, making their way to the rail below him.

  Wow! Stinky Dog thought as he watched the steel melt and mold itself back to the original track seconds before the train passed over it. The passengers were safe!

  Maybe that bird wasn’t so stupid, after all. It was P. U. to the twentieth power! The odorousness (or pungency) (or effluvium) was so great that it actually created heat—heat that was strong enough to bend steel!

  “That was awesome, stinky dog,” said the bird. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

  “I don’t think so,” said the flying wire-haired dachschund puppy, who was only slighted winded after his heroic effort. “And how did you know my name?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “You called me Stinky Dog.”

  “That’s what you are.”

  “Well, it’s also my name. I’m Stinky Dog. I’m a superhero. Who are you?”

  “I’m Dean,” said the bird. “I’m a sparrow.”

  And thus a great friendship was formed.

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  Oh, swell. I let my friend Delilah read what I’ve written so far, and all she had to say was, “It’s all about boys! One helpless little old lady. That’s your only female character.”

  “It’s a superhero story,” I reminded her.

  “So? Girls can be superheroes! Look at Wonder Woman and Batgirl and Xena.”

  I have no idea how Delilah knows these things. Sometimes she is too informed for her own good.

  Or for my own good, anyway.

  “Fine,” I told her, “I’ll bring a girl into the story.”

  “And she’d better not be helpless,” Delilah said.

  “Fine,” I said.

  Do all writers go through this? Why can’t I just write what I want to write? I don’t know how to bring a girl character into this story without her being helpless. I mean, there isn’t room for two superheroes—and I want to be the superhero! Delilah is always butting in and telling me what to do.

  The thing is, I like Delilah and I don’t want her to be mad at me. Maybe she has a point. I’ll think about it.

  Okay, I thought about it. I’m not sure she has a point.

  CHAPTER 5:

  “STINKY DOG AND LITTLE D”

  SKKKRREEEEEEECCHHH! PHOOFPH!

  The train came to a halt. People were running back down the tracks toward Stinky Dog and Dean.

  Think fragrant thoughts, Stinky Dog told himself. He had figured out how his powers worked. If I think aromatic thoughts, he told himself, no one will get hurt. Think sweet, perfumy, ambrosial thoughts. Rose gardens, spring rain, powdered baby bottoms.

  People were cheering as they came closer.

  “You saved us!” the train conductor cried.

  “Who are you, mysterious stranger who flew down from the sky?” shouted a newspaper reporter who happened to be on the train.

  Suddenly a new thought occurred to Stinky Dog! Maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea to let others get close enough that they could discover his true identity. Who knew what problems it might cause the Monroes if it was known they were harboring a stinky dog—a heroic stinky dog, but a stinky dog nonetheless. As everyone knew, it was illegal to be a stinky dog in Center City.

  Before the approaching crowd could get too close, he reversed his thoughts. Rotting apples, dead fish, dirty diapers.

  ZOOOOOOOM! He was out of there!

  “That was cool,” said Dean, who was flying at his side. “Maybe we should come up with some outfits to disguise ourselves.” Beneath them, the crowd was yelling. Shouting. Crying out. Raising a clamor. Vociferating.

  “We?” said Howie over the rapidly receding ruckus. (Or was it the distantly diminishing din?)

  “Please let me be your sidekick,” said Dean. “I want to be larger than life, too.”

  “You’re a sparrow,” Stinky Dog pointed out.

  “Not everyone can be an eagle,” Dean replied. “Even sparrows yearn to soar.”

  Stinky Dog nodded earnestly and thoughtfully, not to mention pensively. Dean was right. Besides, with writing like that, Howie Monroe might have a chance of winning the Newbony Award.

  “I don’t have to be larger than life if you don’t want me to be,” the persistent bird went on. “I can be small and still be a superhero’s sidekick. You could call me Little D.”

  The steadfast sparrow was growing on Stinky Dog. He thought, A superhero’s life can be a lonely life. It would be nice to have some company.

  “Little D,” he said. “Let’s go make us some outfits.”

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  Uncle Harold asked me how come Dean can smell Stinky Dog and not pass out.

  I told him, “Uncle Harold, Stinky Dog flies through the air. If every bird he comes near passes out, the ground will be covered with passed-out birds before you can say, ‘watch out below.’ ”

  I ran out of room before he could ask any more pesky questions.

  Meanwhile, using a thesaurus is exhausting. Who knew there were so many words?

  I’ll bet the Newbony Award committee loves stuff like “vociferating” and “rapidly receding ruckus,” though. Not to mention “Even sparrows yearn to soar.”

  Years from now (or maybe next year), I’ll be signing autographs after winning the Newbony Award and people will say, “Isn’t your paw getting tired?” And I’ll say, “You think this is something? You should have seen how tired my paw got using the thesaurus!” Then we’ll all have a good laugh.

  (I wonder if my paw will get tired.)

  CHAPTER 6:

  “MAKING THE WORLD SAFE FOR STINKINESS”

  WHIRRR! ZZZZZZ! DING-DING-DING! WHIRRRRRRR!

  The sound of the sewing machine meant only one thing: Stinky Dog and Little D were making themselves some outfits. Everyone wondered how a dog and a bird knew how to operate a sewing machine, but they didn’t take into account that a) Stinky Dog was a superhero with superheroic powers, and b) ever since Martha Stewart came on the scene, who didn’t know how to sew outfits or make charming yet functional sectional sofas out of used milk cartons?

  Pretty soon they had capes and form-fitting trousers and little panty-things and big letters on their chests. And masks. No one would recognize them now.

  “Look! Up in the sky!”

  “It’s Stinky Dog and Little D!”

  Well, okay, everybody recognized them, but no one knew th
eir true identities.

  Not even Howie’s friends Harold, Chester, and Delilah.

  “Did you see today’s paper?” Harold asked one morning after breakfast. “Stinky Dog saved a group of schoolchildren from a cave-in!”

  Chester chimed in, “Yesterday Stinky Dog and his sidekick, Little D, stopped seventeen attempted robberies and rescued twenty-four dogs who were about to be arrested for stinkiness.”

  “I wonder who Stinky Dog and Little D are,” Delilah said with a sigh.

  Howie and Dean winked at each other.

  Chester said, “We may never know. They’re too fast, speedy, and quick to be caught. Not to mention cagey, sly, and elusive.”

  “There’s only one power great enough to match theirs,” Harold said mysteriously.

  “Do you mean the mayor of Center City?” Howie asked.

  “The mayor of Center City is small potatoes compared to the one I’m talking about,” said Harold enigmatically.

  “Then who are you talking about?”

  “Whom.”

  “Who’s Hoom?”

  “Not ‘Whose whom.’ Whom are you talking about?”

  “Are we talking about Hoom? Who’s Hoom?”

  “Whom . . . oh, never mind. What I’m trying to say is, I am talking about B-Man.”

  “B-Man, B-Man, where have I heard that name before?” Howie mused. Dean kicked him in the shins, which Howie barely felt since Dean was only a bird, although he felt it enough to realize what Dean was trying to tell him: Hush up about that! You heard about B-Man when you were Stinky Dog!

  “I’ve never told you about B-Man, Howie,” Harold went on, unaware of and also oblivious to what Howie had just said, “because I wanted to protect you. I thought you were too young, but perhaps the time has come. B-Man is—”

  KEERASHHH!

  “Sounds like trouble!” said Dean. “We’d better—”

  It was Howie’s turn to kick Dean in the shins. Or whatever passes for shins on birds. “Um, we’ll be right back, we just—”

  Luckily for Howie and Dean, the others weren’t paying attention. They had jumped up onto the sofa to see what was happening outside. Howie and Dean made a mad dash for the kitchen where they changed into their superhero outfits (which they’d hidden behind the refrigerator), rushed out the back door, and thought stinky thoughts. Soon they were up, up, and away, and people were shouting, “Look! Up in the sky!” “It’s a bird!” “It’s a dog!” “It’s a bird and a dog!”

  It went on like this for weeks. The jails filled up with criminals, handbags were returned to their rightful owners, and petitions circulated asking that dogs be allowed to roll around in compost heaps and smell to their hearts’ content. Stinky Dog and Little D were making the world a safer, happier, and stinkier place in which to live.

  The only problem was that Howie had to listen to Harold and Chester wonder about Stinky Dog’s true identity, never guessing that he was none other than their very own modest, humble, yet daring and courageous, friend. What was worse was having to listen to Delilah, who had always thought Howie was the coolest thing since chew bones and now couldn’t stop talking about Stinky Dog.

  “Why can’t you be like Stinky Dog?” she would say. “He’s always rescuing damsels in distress. Why can’t he rescue me?”

  Little did Delilah know that soon she would get her wish.

  HOWIE’S WRITING JOURNAL

  Writing is for the birds!

  (No offense, Dean.)

  (I just remembered Dean isn’t real.)

  (Writing is confusing.)

  Anyway, there I was feeling all proud of myself for the way I kept Harold from revealing the true identity of B-Man (since it’s too early in the story). Then I showed Uncle Harold and Delilah what I just wrote, and did they say, “Great job!” or “Way to go, Writer Dog!”

  No!

  Uncle Harold said, “It doesn’t make sense that Harold and Chester wouldn’t know the true identity of Stinky Dog. Weren’t they watching out the window when Howie was transformed by the bolt of lightning?”

  To which I said, “Well, maybe they got scared and jumped off the sofa and weren’t watching anymore.”

  “Your readers don’t know that,” Uncle Harold said.

  “They do now!” I told him.

  Uncle Harold gave me one of his looks as if to say that including important details in my writing journal instead of in the story itself is cheating or something. I seriously think he needs to go lighten up.

  And he should take Delilah with him when he does.

  She was so angry she could hardly talk. Let’s see, I think what she said was, “Can’t write female characters.” “Making me sound like a ninny.” “Wouldn’t know a female superhero if one fell on you.” Stuff like that.

  I probably shouldn’t have let her read the last chapter. She doesn’t know I have a plan for Delilah’s character.

  I actually have a plan for the whole rest of the book.

  I even know who B-Man is.

  It’s cool having a plan.

  It also involves a lot of thinking.

  I may need to lie down for a little while.

  CHAPTER 7:

  “SO WE MEET AT LAST, B-MAN!”

  One day Howie and Dean were sitting around chewing the fat. (That’s just an expression. Neither of them chewed fat. It means they were shooting the breeze, talking, having a little chat. In fact, Howie was chewing a chew bone and Dean was chewing a sesame seed he’d found on the sidewalk outside a bagel store. Dean could get as much enjoyment from chewing a sesame seed as Howie got from chewing a chew bone.) (Well, almost as much.)

  “What do you think will happen to us today, Big D?” Dean asked. (Dean had taken to calling Howie Big D, as in D-for-Dog, since he was Little D. Howie didn’t object. He was a dachshund. He’d waited his whole life for someone to look up to him.)

  “Who knows?” Howie, aka Big D, aka Stinky Dog, answered. “That’s one of the exciting things about being a superhero—”

  “And a superhero’s sidekick,” Dean said.

  Howie smiled at him. “Right,” he said. “You never know—”

  SSSHHPPLLOOSH! SSHHK-WUMPSH! SSSMMURRRSHHH!

  Dean dropped his half-chewed sesame seed on the ground. Howie, who was as sensitive as a who was sensitive, looked the other way. He still thought birds could be pretty gross, but he didn’t want Dean to know that. Besides, he had more important things than a half-chewed sesame seed to pay attention to.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  SSSHHPLLOOSH! SSHHK-WUMPSH! SSSMMURRRSHHH!

  There it was again! Except closer this time.

  “Help!” a familiar voice cried.

  “It’s Delilah!” said the keenly keen wire-haired dachshund puppy superhero. “We’ve got to save her!”

  Howie and Dean donned their disguises delaylessly.

  Suddenly Delilah burst into the room. (Luckily, they’d just finished putting on their masks.)

  “Stinky Dog! Little D!” Delilah cried out, amazed to see them. “Something’s after me! You’ve got to stop it!”

  Howie’s nostrils twitched. “P. U.,” he said, “you smell as bad as I do.”

  “Why, thank you, Stinky Dog,” Delilah said, swooning and swaying slightly. “It’s so kind of you to notice.”

  “Kind? No, no. Perceptive, perhaps. Sensitive, certainly. Awesomely aware—”

  Delilah didn’t want to interrupt an alliterative superhero, but she was being chased, after all. She hastened to explain. “I was . . . well, I was rolling in the compost heap. I know it’s still against the law, but ever since you appeared, Stinky Dog, I’ve felt called to obey a higher law: the law of stinkiness. Then, out of nowhere, this . . . thing appeared!” Delilah shuddered.

  “And there it is now!” cried Little D.

  KEERRAKKK! The wall gave way!

  SSHHKWUMPSH! PLOOOFFSSHH! It appeared! It was too horrible to describe.

  So I won’t bother.

  HOWIE�
��S WRITING JOURNAL

  Uncle Harold just looked over my shoulder and said, “It’s your job as the author to paint the picture, Howie.”

  “Am I an author or a painter?” I asked, thinking I was being pretty clever.

  Uncle Harold didn’t laugh. “You can’t say something is too horrible to describe and then not describe it. And, by the way, ‘delaylessly’ is not a word. You mean, ‘without delay.’ ”

  “I was going for alliteration,” I said. “It’s a style thing.”

  Uncle Harold suddenly remembered he was needed in the next room. The next room is a closet. I hope he isn’t losing his mind.

  KEERRAKKK! The wall gave way!

  SSHHKWUMPSH! PLOOOFFSSHH! A creature crashed into the room! It was huge and foamy and so white it was almost blinding! Bubbles kept popping all over its hideously sweet-smelling body! Its big pink eyes seemed to be laughing! Instantly Stinky Dog knew what—no, he knew who—it was.

  “So we meet at last, B-Man!” he said.

  “This is B-Man?” Little D chirped. “But he looks like an overflowing—”

  “Exactly,” said Stinky Dog. “He looks like an overflowing bathtub. What else would you expect BATH MAN to look like?”

  Delilah shrieked. Then she fainted.

  Bath Man roared with laughter.

  “She’s mine now!” he bellowed, belching a barrage of bubbles as he did.

  Stinky Dog thought really stinky thoughts—so stinky they cannot be printed here for fear of offending the reader and possibly disqualifying the author from Newbony Award consideration for the rest of his career. Trust me, though, these thoughts were really, really stinky!

  Bath Man laughed even harder. “You’ve met your match, Stinky Dog!” he said, cackling. “YAHAHA (BUBBLEBUBBLE) HAHA!”

  Stinky Dog was unable to move. Overpowered by Bath Man’s clean-smelling SUPER-SWEETNESS, he watched in horror as Bath Man moved closer and closer until the over-sized, over-sanitized creature bent down and lifted up the passed-out, putrid pooch lying before him.