Hot Dog and Bob: Adventure 2

by L. Bob Rovetch

  “I bet the Morrisons are having another one of their famous franks ‘n’ beans barbecues,” said my dad. “Old Chomper probably slipped out the back gate again. It would take an entire army to keep that hound away from those juicy hot dogs!”

  “Hot dogs? J-j-juicy h-h-hot dogs?” I said in an embarrassingly high voice. “I’m not feeling very well. May I please be excused?”

  When I got to my room, the door was wide open and Chomper’s tail was sticking out from under my bed.

  Chapter 6

  Bad Dog!

  “No! Bad dog!” I yelled, pulling Chomper away from the bed. Then I saw it—the terribly empty shoe box. “You ate him! You chomped my partner! How could you do this? The poor little guy didn’t even have a chance! What am I going to tell the Big Bun? How am I even going to find the Big Bun to tell her?”

  I desperately scanned the night-sky poster on my closet door. “Dogzalot, Dogzalot, where are you, Dogzalot?”

  “You won’t find it there,” a voice said. “Dogzalot is in a whole different solar system.”

  I looked up to see Hot Dog resting comfortably on my windowsill.

  “You’re alive!” I shouted.

  “Okay, okay, keep it down,” he said. “You want the whole neighborhood to hear about it? Of course I’m alive! I’m a superhero, for cryin’ out loud! It’s gonna take a lot more than a saggy old basset hound with halitosis to take me outta this game!”

  I gave Hot Dog a great big hug (which, if you’ve ever tried hugging a hot dog, you’d know isn’t the easiest thing to do). Then we sat down on my bed and talked.

  “Okay, kiddo,” said Hot Dog. “We’d better discuss the plan.”

  “Right!” I said.

  “Right!” Hot Dog said.

  “So, what is it?” I asked.

  “What is what?” Hot Dog asked.

  “The plan,” I said. “I thought you wanted to discuss the plan!”

  “Oh, right! The plan,” said Hot Dog, whose memory had definitely not improved since the last time he’d had one of his plans.

  “Are you sure we really even need a plan?” I asked. “I mean, if the Scribbler was going to do something awful, wouldn’t he have already done it by now?”

  “You’re gonna have to trust me on this one,” said Hot Dog. “We need a plan, and we need it now. There’s only one way to get rid of pencil snatchers, and that, my friend, is with a flute!”

  “A flute?” I asked.

  Hot Dog pointed at the red kazoo on my shelf. “Do you know how to play that thing?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “It’s perfect!” said Hot Dog. “Pencil snatchers have very sensitive ears. They’ll follow the sound of the flute like the rats followed the Pied Piper.”

  “Only one problem,” I said. “That’s a kazoo, not a flute.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Hot Dog. “The kazoo should work fine.”

  “Should?” I asked.

  “Will!” Hot Dog corrected himself. “The kazoo will work fine! Okay, here’s the plan. I’m gonna set up a sneaky trap. Then you’re gonna play the kazoo and lead the pencil snatchers into my sneaky trap. Got it?”

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” I asked.

  “Sure I’m sure!” said Hot Dog.

  I stayed up all night long practicing the kazoo under my covers. In the morning I put it in my pocket and crossed my fingers.

  “I sure hope you know what you’re talking about,” I whispered to Hot Dog as I packed my lunch.

  “Relax, buddy,” Hot Dog said, getting comfortable next to my bag of carrot sticks. “You do your job, I’ll do my job and the world should—I mean will—be saved before dinnertime.”

  Chapter 7

  The Art Lesson

  When I got to class, Clementine passed me a note that said, “What’s up? How come you never e-mailed me last night?”

  I wrote back, “I thought Chomper ate Hot Dog, but everything’s cool now.”

  We got our Thursday spelling tests back, and it turned out we all got Fs. Marybell Higgins, who’s never gotten less than an A-minus in her life, was so shocked she fainted.

  “I could have sworn most of you got As and Bs,” Miss Lamphead said, checking her grade book. “Oh, heavens! My grades have all been erased and replaced with Fs! I’m going to take Marybell to Nurse Bunyan’s office. We’ll get to the bottom of this mystery when I get back.”

  The second she left, the Scribbler appeared and jumped on top of Miss Lamphead’s desk.

  “Things are going to be different around here now that I’m in charge!” he hollered at the top of his evil little pencil lungs. “Get out your pencils for a pop quiz!”

  The kids in my class were so surprised they just did just as they were told. But when they reached into their desks, crazy, growling pencils leaped out.

  “As you can see, I’ve made a few changes around here,” said the Scribbler. “And I’m about to make a few more. The first pop-quiz question is, Who can guess what the human in the green shirt looks like?”

  We looked over at my friend Marco, and his pencil was drawing all over him. Before long he had fur on his face, tons of whiskers and long tusks.

  “Sweet! Marco’s a walrus!” exclaimed Barfalot.

  “Sweet! Marco’s a walrus!” Pigburt and Slugburt repeated.

  “A-plus!” said the Scribbler. “You three must be the smartest students in this whole class.”

  “Excellent!” said Barfalot.

  “Excellent!” said Pigburt and Slugburt.

  It’s probably safe to say that that was the first and last time the Terrible Triplets ever got an A on anything.

  Marco stood up and tried to take his walrus head off like it was a Halloween mask.

  “You’re wasting your time.” The Scribbler laughed. “We pencil snatchers are master artists. Our work is museum quality and made to last, as in permanent!” He looked around. “The next question is, Who can guess what the human in the orange dress is?”

  We looked over at Lupi. Her pencil was zipping around her faster than the speed of light.

  “Hmm, something fishy’s going on around here,” mumbled Clementine.

  She was right. Lupi had a brand-new, perfectly drawn fish head all covered in shiny scales.

  “Can I please go to the drinking fountain?” Lupi asked. “For some reason I just got really thirsty.”

  The Scribbler ignored her and gave an art lesson to the pencil snatchers instead.

  “Better shading! More detail! Are we mere sticks of wood? Or are we the most brilliant artists in the universe? You must practice more, my little scribblers. Practice makes perfect!”

  Chapter 8

  The Ibblerscray

  I used my feet to sneak my lunch box out from under my chair. Then I reached down and flipped up the lid. “Shouldn’t we try to stop them?” I whispered. “Hot Dog? Hot Dog, are you in there?”

  Hot Dog was snoring away under my carrot sticks. I gave him a poke with my finger.

  “Huh? What? Did somebody say something?” he yawned.

  “You’re sleeping?” I yelled as quietly as I could.

  Hot Dog rubbed his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t exactly get the greatest night’s sleep with all that kazoo playing, if you know what I mean.”

  “We’re having a little oblempray with the ibblerscray!” I whispered.

  In the little time our short conversation took, the pencil snatchers had already completed their “masterpieces”: Barfalot was a bear, Pigburt was a pig, Slugburt was a slug, Felicia was a donkey, Jordan was a lion, Roger was an iguana, José was an ostrich, Ricardo was a cow and Ivy was a chimpanzee.

  The Scribbler glared at the pencils that were trying to draw on Clementine and me.

  “What’s the problem over there?” he asked. “Why haven’t you two completed your assignments?”

  Our pencils were buzzing around us, looking completely confused. They were drawing and drawing, but nothing was sticking to us.


  “Check it out,” whispered Clementine. “We’re the only ones without animal heads. We’re pencil proof!”

  “Is it you, Hot Dog?” I whispered. “Are you making it so Clementine and I can’t get drawn on?”

  “I would if I could,” said Hot Dog. “I may be a superhero, but I ain’t magic!”

  “Stop chattering!” the Scribbler yelled. “How am I supposed to concentrate with all that noise? Who do you think you’re talking to anyway?”

  “Oh, that’s just our, uh, imaginary friend!” said Clementine.

  “Humans with imaginations?” said the Scribbler. “How unusual. How charming. How possibly useful!”

  “Useful?” I asked.

  “Yes, human in the ugly shirt,” the Scribbler answered. “I’m not sure why, I’m not sure how, but something is telling me that you two could assist me in transforming the planet to my liking.”

  “Your liking?” Clementine asked.

  “Yes, human in the pink skirt,” said the Scribbler. “This planet is far too crowded. All of your annoying people bodies are cluttering up my canvas. My art students and I were just having a quick little drawing lesson here before we start erasing.”

  “Erasing?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he explained. “In order to create a true work of art, an artist must begin with a completely blank canvas. So, as you can see, it is necessary to erase everything and everybody. I can’t possibly think straight until all of this annoying clutter is gone.”

  Then he hopped over and scribbled a gigantic bubble around Clementine and me. We were totally trapped. Our poor animal-headed classmates were running around like crazy. The evil pencil snatchers were trying to erase them. And all we could do was sit in our bubble and watch.

  Chapter 9

  The Plan

  “This is a nightmare!” cried Clementine. “We have to stop it! Why won’t this stupid bubble pop?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, reaching into my pocket. “I have a kazoo!”

  “That’s it?” said Clementine. “A kazoo?”

  “This kazoo isn’t just any kazoo,” I said. “This is the plan!”

  “About that plan,” said Hot Dog. “I’m afraid it’s not exactly what you’d call a great trapped-in-a-bubble plan. It’s more like a—let’s see, how should I put this—not-trapped-in-a-bubble plan. Know what I mean, partner?”

  Clementine groaned. “Good-bye, sweet world. It was nice knowing you.”

  “Wait,” I said. “If we give up now, the whole world will be erased! There has to be some way to get out of this bubble!”

  I searched my backpack, my lunch box and my freaking-out brain for an answer. Finally, at the very bottom of my backpack, I discovered a can of soda pop.

  “Purple Blast!” I said.

  “Eww! You drink that disgusting stuff?” asked Clementine.

  “Marco was passing it out after our soccer game last week,” I said. “I forgot all about it. If I’m remembering the facts right, there are enough artificial colors, sweeteners and chemicals in this little can to eat a hole through pretty much anything.”

  “Including an unpoppable bubble?” said Clementine.

  “Hurry up, partner!” said Hot Dog. “Time’s a-wastin’ and those pencils are erasin’!”

  I shook the can of Purple Blast and aimed it at the bubble, and soda pop exploded everywhere.

  “It’s working!” cheered Clementine. “The bubble is disintegrating!”

  The good news was that we were free. The bad news was that we were too late. The only things left of our classmates were pitiful pink piles of eraser dust.

  Chapter 9½

  Cool Rockin’ Tunes

  “Now, on to the plan!” I said, pulling out my kazoo. “You make the trap, and I’ll lead them into it.”

  Hot Dog sneakily snuck over to Miss Lamphead’s desk. He opened the drawer and filled it with glue. “Do your thing!” he said.

  I ran over to the sticky trap and played my kazoo. If the plan worked, the pencil snatchers would follow my music and get stuck in the glue, and the world would be saved. Unfortunately, the pencil snatchers didn’t follow my kazoo music at all. They just danced to it!

  Chapter 10

  Like Roses in Springtime

  “Cool rockin’ tunes,” the Scribbler said. “We could use a little music around here! I knew you would come in handy somehow. And you, human over there in the pink skirt, what useful thing do you do?”

  Clementine grabbed Hot Dog. Then she started shaking and banging on him like a tambourine.

  “Oh, um, I play the hot dog!” she said. “It’s a very, uh, popular instrument here on Earth!”

  Hot Dog yelped as Clementine banged. Between our yelping and kazooing and their dancing, one thing was clear. The pencil snatchers definitely did not have supersensitive ears. So much for Hot Dog’s plan. We were toast for sure.

  “Don’t worry,” Hot Dog squeaked between the yelps. “I’ll think of a new plan any minute!”

  Yeah, right. I wasn’t exactly getting my hopes up.

  “You two can stay until I get tired of your tunes,” the Scribbler told us. “After that we’ll need to erase you like the others.”

  When he said “you two” instead of “you three,” I realized something. The Scribbler really believed that Hot Dog was just a musical instrument. He had no idea that the yelping thing in Clementine’s hands was any kind of superhero at all. I tooted my kazoo and prayed that Hot Dog was going to surprise us with a plan that actually worked—hopefully soon!

  Meanwhile, the Scribbler and his Pencil Snatchers gang danced and sang.

  Erase, erase, erase this world.

  Come on, everybody, let’s erase this world!

  Erase all the boys, erase all the girls.

  Yeah, we’re gonna scribble up

  A whole new world!

  I’d always dreamed of playing in a band, but my dream didn’t look anything like this.

  Then all of a sudden a different sound came out of Hot Dog. It wasn’t a yelping sound. It was louder, it was stranger, it was … smellier!

  “Stinkin’ sardines!” Clementine gagged. “What died in your bun?”

  Clementine and I were beyond grossed out by Hot Dog’s disgusting fart, but it was worth it. The evil pencils were dropping like flies!

  “What’s happening?” gagged Clementine. “Are they dying?”

  “Pencil snatchers have one great weakness,” said Hot Dog. “They have extremely sensitive noses.”

  “I thought you said they had extremely sensitive ears!” I said.

  “Ears, noses,” said Hot Dog. “There are so many body parts. Can you blame a guy for gettin’ them a little mixed up once in a while?”

  First of all, the pencil snatchers didn’t really have that many body parts to get mixed up. Second of all, I was blaming Hot Dog. I mean, how hard can it be to remember the one and only incredibly important fact that could save the world?

  “Usually they just erase anything that stinks,” Hot Dog explained. “But they were so busy singing and dancing they didn’t see—er, smell—this one comin’! And now, if you’ll kindly help me dispose of this mess.”

  One by one, we stuck the pencils into Miss Lamphead’s sharpener and sharpened them until there was nothing left.

  “I don’t mean to be ungrateful or anything,” said Clementine, plugging her nose. “But do you think you could do something about this smell?”

  Hot Dog pushed a secret bun button and sprayed a twinkling mist of flowery-smelling perfume all over the room.

  “Ahhh, my favorite scent!” said a voice. “Like roses in springtime!” It was the Scribbler. How could we have forgotten to destroy him?

  “Whoops!” said Hot Dog. “Looks like I might have sweetened things up just a little too soon!”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the Scribbler said, scribbling thick black lines around Hot Dog. “In fact, I’d say your timing was perfect!”

  Chapter 11

 
; Stinky Party Poopers

  It’s funny how one minute you think your planet is saved and you’re going to live happily ever after. Then the next minute your not-so-super superhero partner gets scribbled into a cage. Come to think of it, I guess it’s not really that funny after all.

  “Run!” Hot Dog yelled. “Save yourselves while you still can!”

  “Psst! Bob,” Clementine whispered. “Eat this!”

  She tossed me the leftover half of her peanut butter, banana, avocado, red pepper, onion, ham, chocolate chip, cream cheese, raisin, alfalfa sprout and extra hot horseradish on rye bread sandwich. At first I was clueless. But then I understood. Clementine eats radically weird sandwiches every single day of her life, so her stomach is used to the stuff. But my digestive system is used to a simpler diet. I only eat normal things, like peanuts and pasta. So I don’t exactly, uh, do well with that kind of unusual food combination.

  Clementine’s sandwich slid down my throat and landed like a rock in my stomach. Freaky, loud rumbling noises gurgled in my gut. Before long the desired effect of our experiment was produced.

  “Jeez Louise!” Clementine gagged as she was blown over by my stinky blast of wind. “I take it back! I choose the end of the world!”