by Luke Sharpe
I let out a long whistle. “Phiii-looo,” I call.
Philo comes tearing through the house, skidding to a stop at my feet. I lean down and scratch his head. He licks my cheek, and I laugh.
Back outside I hop onto my bike and speed off. Philo trots happily alongside me.
A few minutes later we arrive at Manny’s house. I lean my bike against a tree, and Philo and I head to the garage. I can’t wait to talk to Manny about the Dog Translator.
I open the door to our office. As soon as I do, LA! LA! LAAAH!, a sound comes blasting out of a speaker hanging just above my head.
It’s every ball you’ll ever need; the greatest ball you’ll own, indeed. No matter what sport you like to play, the All Ball helps you every day. That’s all! That’s the All Ball!
It’s the new jingle for the All Ball! But why is it coming out of this speaker?
Across the room Manny is sitting at his desk. He’s having a conversation with someone on his smartphone, messaging someone else on his tablet, and replying to an e-mail on his laptop—all at the same time. Look up the word “MULTITASK” in the dictionary and you’ll see Manny’s picture.
He turns toward me and puts his hand over his phone.
“You like it?” he calls out. “It’s our new doorbell! It’ll play every time the door opens. Isn’t that great?”
Without waiting for a reply, Manny goes back to his phone call.
Manny loves that jingle. He says he never gets tired of it—maybe that’s because he wrote it for our first TV commercial for the All Ball. Me, well, I’ve heard it plenty of times, and now I have to hear it every time I open the door? We may have to talk about this.
I head inside to my desk, past the soda, pizza, pinball, foosball, and air hockey machines. I squeeze past the basketball hoop and the punching bag. I could go for a custom slice of cherry pie pizza and my very own concoction that I call LIME-PICKLE SODALICIOUS right now, but there’s too much work to do. Philo trots over to his doggy bed and curls right up.
“It’s simple,” Manny says into the phone, “any kid from anywhere in the world can submit any idea to us on our website. The contest is always open and we’re always reviewing ideas.”
I smile. Manny’s talking about Sure Things’ Next Big Thing contest. That’s how we started manufacturing the Sibling Silencer. It’s co-owned with a girl named Abby who came up with the idea. We just helped her create and manufacture it.
But right now the contest will have to be put on hold. The Dog Translator just has to be the next thing we work on.
“Manny, I have to tell you about my idea!” I say. I usually don’t like to bother Manny when he’s on a call—or three—but I just can’t wait to talk about the Dog Translator.
“I’ll call you back,” Manny says into the smartphone. Then he taps a button on the touch screen. He quickly responds: “Be right back” on his tablet, then hits send on the e-mail he’s been writing.
“Yeah, Billy, what’s up?” he says, swiveling his chair toward me. “I’ve just been going through sales figures, and everything is looking up: the All Ball, the Sibling Silencer, the Stink Spectacular, and Disappearing Reappearing Makeup!”
“So what do you think about the Dog Translator for our Next Big Thing?” I ask.
“I love it, but I figured out a way to broaden the scope, as in . . . double the market!” Manny says, smiling. “I did some research. It seems that between 37 and 47 percent of all US households have a dog. That’s great. But here comes the broadening-the-scope part—between 30 and 37 percent of all US households have a cat!”
“Yeah,” I say cautiously.
“So let’s make Sure Things, Inc.’s next great invention . . . the CAT-DOG TRANSLATOR! Whatcha think?”
Before I can answer, Manny continues. “The way I figure it, we can almost double the profits by including cats, allowing us to lower the price and sell more total units.”
That’s Manny for you, always looking to maximize profits. It’s not that Manny cares about money. In fact, the money we make at Sure Things, Inc. usually goes right back into the business . . . or into our college funds. But Manny loves numbers—the bigger, the better. Sometimes I think it’s all a game to Manny. And Manny loves games.
Manny is still talking about his big plans. “I figure we start with a stand-alone unit. If that does well, we expand into creating smartphone and tablet apps that can be integrated into—”
“Whoa! Manny, hold on one sec!” I shout.
“What’s the matter?” Manny asks, truly puzzled.
“You have failed to take one very important point into consideration,” I explain.
“Really?” Manny asks, scratching his head. “What’s that?”
“The invention doesn’t EXIST yet!” I exclaim.
You know, for a brilliant guy, sometimes Manny misses the most obvious stuff.
“Right, right,” Manny says, turning back to his smartphone, tablet, and spreadsheets. “Well, then you better get busy, partner!”
To the Lab!
I SETTLE INTO MY INVENTOR’S lab. Okay, it’s really a corner of Manny’s garage with a workbench, a tool cabinet, a parts cabinet, a bunch of shelves, and a pegboard. Manny calls it the “mad scientist” division of Sure Things, Inc., but that’s just because he doesn’t understand the type of environment that inventors need to allow our minds to work.
Above my workbench hangs a sign with a quote from my favorite inventor, THOMAS EDISON: “To invent, you need a good imagination and a pile of junk.”
I couldn’t agree more.
I admit, it’s a little messy. I haven’t actually seen the surface of the workbench in a few months. And the cables, wires, plugs, and gizmos dangling from hooks on the pegboard could perhaps be a little more organized. And yes, the last time I needed to find the power drill all I had to do was look in the drawer labeled PRiNTER CARTRiDGES.
See? I know where everything is. Just because no one else would have a clue where to find anything . . . well, let’s just call that my version of a security system.
I start, as I usually do, with a pencil and a blank piece of paper. Sitting on my official inventor’s stool, I quickly sketch out a box in which to hold all the electronics necessary to interpret dog and cat sounds. The device will need a microphone to pick up the sounds, and a speaker so we can hear what the animals are actually saying.
Okay, I have point A and point B all set up. Now I just have to connect those dots. Slipping off my stool, I crawl under my workbench. There I have piles of things I started and never quite got anywhere with.
I find a wooden box in decent shape. That’s a good enough start for me. Placing the box on the workbench—or more accurately, shoving aside steel pipes, plastic doll heads, and four roller skate wheels (don’t ask!), I set the box on the workbench.
Grabbing my drill—from the printer cartridge drawer—I cut out a large hole in the front of the box. I pick up a curved pipe, which I had just knocked onto the floor, and fit it into the hole.
Now I need wires. Did I mention not to try this at home? Well, don’t. Standing on my stool, I look up at a high shelf. There I see a row of boxes. I grab a box of green wires and step down off the stool.
I run about two feet of wire through the pipe and into the box.
Next I need a microphone. I open a drawer in my parts cabinet labeled MiCROPHONES (you’re shocked, I know) and find a large round microphone.
I connect it to the wire running through the pipe. I’m starting to get a good feeling about this. This just may work.
“Hey, Billy, I already have three major stores interested in the Cat-Dog Translator!” Manny calls out.
Okay . . . so much for my good feeling. Now all I’m feeling is pressure to get this thing done . . . and to get it right.
Next I need a speaker. Since cats and dogs use a variety of sounds and tones rather than actual words, I think an old-fashioned speaker would make it easier to understand the translation.
Back
under the workbench for me. I take a stack of blueprints off of an old wooden trunk and place them on the floor. Flipping open the trunk’s lid, I rummage around.
Let’s see . . . knobs—I could use a couple of those to control the volume . . . buttons, nah . . . dials, and . . . AHA! Speakers!
I pull out a large cone-shaped speaker. It looks like a cross between a megaphone that a cheerleader might use and something people used to use to help them hear.
I drill an even larger hole in the top of the box, then fit the smaller end of the speaker into the hole.
Over the next hour I place knobs, meters, dials, a couple of lightbulbs, and what feels like two miles of wire into the box. Screwing the last knob into place, I step back and look at my creation.
It looks kind of primitive, like something out of an old black-and-white horror movie. Still, my inventor’s instinct is that the Cat-Dog Translator needs to be simple and kind of old-fashioned. Anything too sophisticated might go beyond the ability to capture what dogs and cats are saying.
“Make that four major stores, Billy!” Manny shouts across the garage. “I’m on a roll!”
Wonderful. Let’s hope that I’m on a roll too!
I’m sure this thing will need some tweaks, but the only way to fine-tune it is to test it. Conveniently, we just happen to have a perfect test subject right on the premises.
“Phiii-looo!” I call out.
Philo lifts his head up from his dog bed and stares at me. He looks puzzled. I’m sure he’s thinking, I haven’t had time for a full nap. It can’t be time to go home already, can it?
Of course, if this thing works, I’ll know exactly what he is thinking.
“Come here, boy!” I call.
Philo just yawns.
Fortunately, I keep a box of doggy treats in my tool cabinet in a drawer labeled DOGGY TREATS.
I pull out the box and shake it. Philo jumps up and trots across the room. All signs of sleepiness VANISH.
I toss a treat into the air. Philo stands up on his back legs and catches it in his mouth. We repeat the process one more time, and then I pick up my rough model of the Cat-Dog Translator.
I hold the microphone portion of the invention up to Philo’s mouth.
“Speak, boy!” I say. “Say something.”
But Philo just looks up at me, hoping for another treat, and drools. A huge glob of drool splashes down onto the microphone.
Sparks fly from the box. The lightbulbs flash on and off several times, then the whole thing goes dead, making a sickly fizzing sound. A curl of black smoke rises from the box and drifts up toward the ceiling. Philo takes one sniff and trots back to his bed.
“Did you leave some pizza in the machine?” Manny asks without turning around.
“Funny,” I say. “Guess I need to add a DROOL GUARD to the microphone portion of this thing. Just think about how much dogs drool.”
“Do I have to?” asks Manny.
“No, but I do.”
“That’s why you’re the inventor and I’m the guy who just got a fifth major store interested in the Cat-Dog Translator!” boasts Manny, firing off a text.
As usual, he’s so focused on the big picture that the tiny details that make up any invention are lost on him. That’s me. The “tiny details” guy. Speaking of which . . . climbing back onto my stool, I reach up to one of my supremely organized shelves for a plastic box labeled PLASTiC STUFF. I pull down the box.
Rummaging through the box I find a square piece of plastic. I hold it up against the microphone and it seems to fit pretty well. At least well enough for a prototype. Using a special bit, I drill a few holes in the plastic. My hope is that the piece will allow the dog and cat sounds in but keep any extraneous drool out. I secure the plastic drool guard to the microphone.
About fifteen minutes later I’ve replaced all the burned-out wires, circuits, and bulbs. Screwing the box back together, I’m ready for another test.
Grabbing his box of treats, I lure Philo back out of his doggy bed.
“Okay, boy, speak!” I command. “Speak!”
Nothing. Philo always barks at the wrong time. Why can’t he bark at the right time?
I hold a treat over my head. “Want it, boy?”
“RUUFFF! RUUFFF!” barks Philo.
I manage to move the device over to Philo’s mouth, just before the second “Ruufff!” A glob of drool bounces off the plastic guard and spatters on the floor. But the machine’s lights start flashing.
“I think it’s gonna work!” I shout excitedly. “For the first time in human history, we’ll actually know what a dog is saying!”
Manny hits save on his laptop and spins his swivel chair around. “This I have to see,” he says. “Or it would be more accurate to say ‘hear.’ ”
The lights stop blinking, and out of the Cat-Dog Translator comes:
“RUUFFF!”
Philo’s original bark. Actually, a static-and-feedback-filled, distorted version of his bark.
Without saying a word—because he knows better, even after only being my business partner for a few months—Manny swivels his chair back around to his desk.
I take a deep breath and grab my electric screwdriver. I’ve been in this situation before. Nothing ever comes that easy. Nothing I invent ever works on the first try. I’ve got to just keep at it.
“RUUFF! RUFF!” Philo barks.
“Good boy, but I don’t need you to bark right now to test the—”
“RUUFFF!” Philo barks even louder.
It’s then I remember the treat in my hand.
“Oops. Sorry, buddy. Here you go.” I toss the treat into the air, and he snatches it and gobbles it right up.
I open up the box and get back to work tweaking the wiring and the circuits, adjusting my rough blueprints as I go. Before I know it, it’s time to head home for dinner. I didn’t expect to bang this thing out in one evening anyway. I gather up the prototype and all my drawings and get ready to leave.
“I’m going to have to work this out using the only tried and true inventing method that’s ever worked for me,” I say.
“SLEEP-INVENTING,” says Manny.
“Yup. Sleep-inventing.”
Manny slips his laptop, tablet, phone, and a stack of papers into his briefcase. Manny loves his briefcase. Even though he’s just walking from the garage to the main house, he always carries it. Makes him feel like a BIG-TIME DEAL MAKER, which I guess he is. He follows me to the door.
Suddenly a terrible thought grips me.
“What if I have trouble sleeping?” I ask, becoming genuinely worried. “I mean, the whole future of Sure Things, Inc. depends on my ability to sleep well, but not well enough that I stay in bed all night.”
“Maybe you should invent something that helps you sleep, like a helmet that stimulates sleep patterns in the brain,” Manny suggests.
“Sure,” I say. “No problem. As long as I can invent it before bedtime tonight, we’re golden!”
I hop onto my bike and head home, with Philo trotting alongside me—but not before jotting down “SLEEP HELMET” on a piece of paper, which I shove into my pocket.
Are You Talking to Me?
THAT NIGHT, FOLLOWING HOMEWORK, DINNER, and watching my favorite reality TV show: GIGANTIC FAILS—INVENTIONS THAT WENT NOWHERE!, a show I hope to never appear on, I go to bed . . .
. . . where I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, followed by lying on my side and staring at the numbers changing on my clock. I’m usually a pretty good sleeper. It’s only been lately, since Manny and I realized that I invent in my sleep, that I have trouble dozing off. Especially when I’m feeling pressure to come up with a new invention.
Finally, after what feels like half the night, I doze off. The next morning I wake with a start, before my alarm even goes off, jump from my bed, and stumble in a sleepy haze over to my desk—where the prototype sits, right next to the rough blueprints I’d brought home the night before. Nothing new. Not even a pencil mark. Clearly I di
d not get up to sleep-invent last night, and that is not a good thing.
I could use that sleep helmet right about now.
I shower, get dressed, and scramble downstairs for some breakfast, all the time doing my best not to freak out about the fact that I didn’t bang out those blueprints in one night.
Emily is waiting at the table. She’s wearing glasses. Emily doesn’t need glasses. I guess that’s her new thing now that she’s not talking in a British accent anymore.
“Whatcha workin’ on, genius?” she asks, pushing her glasses up on her nose. I can see that there are no lenses in the frames. “What’s the next brilliant invention that’s going to change the world forever?”
I decide not to say anything about Emily’s new accessory. It’s best not to engage.
“I’m building a Cat-Dog Translator,” I say.
Without changing her expression one bit, between bites of cereal, Emily says: “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!”
“Well, thank you for your continued support,” I say, shoving an English muffin into my mouth.
Emily just rolls her eyes, which is way more noticeable now that she’s got them framed in fake glasses.
I head off to school, where things go about as well as they’ve been going everywhere else for the past twenty-four hours, which is to say frustrating.
Peter MacHale stops me in the hall.
“Hi, Billy, seen any talking dogs lately?” he shouts. Then he walks away, laughing.
“Hey, Sure, know what my dog said last night?” asks Dudley Dillworthy.
“No, not really,” I reply.
“BOW-WOW, WOOF-WOOF!” says Dudley, bursting into laughter, as if he’s just said the funniest thing anyone has ever said. “Pretty smart dog, huh, Sure?”
“Pretty smart, yeah,” I reply softly.
After school I zip home, grab my bike and Philo, and speed over to Manny’s.
