by Tom Watson
Dedicated to Mary
(SDLMM)
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1: I Can’t Draw, Okay?
Chapter 2: Poo-Poo, Stripes, Karen + Mutt
Chapter 3: A Pleasant Aroma Is Detected
Chapter 4: An Acorn Drops in the Forest
Chapter 5: A Warrior-Human Attacks
Chapter 6: Karen Is Missing
Chapter 7: Bite, Drive, Dive, and Fly
Chapter 8: D-I-Z-T-R-A-K-S-H-U-N
Chapter 9: Spin, Howl, Bounce, and Thump
Chapter 10: Praise and Attention
Acknowledgments
Copyright
About the Publisher
This is Stick Dog.
He is not called Stick Dog because he likes sticks. Although, now that I think about it, he does like sticks. All dogs like sticks, don’t they? I mean, what kind of dog doesn’t like sticks? If I came across an animal that looked like a dog and I offered it a stick and it refused to take it, then I might conclude that it’s not a dog at all. Wouldn’t you?
I would think it’s a furry chair or something.
Anyway, Stick Dog is not called Stick Dog because he likes sticks. He’s called Stick Dog because I don’t know how to draw. I mean, I do know how to draw – I just don’t know how to draw very well. You know how to draw stick people, right? A circle for a head, add a couple of lines for arms and legs, and – SHAZAM! – you’ve got a stick person. I do the same thing for dogs. And that’s how our main character got his name.
So, this is Stick Dog.
When I showed this picture of a dog to my art teacher, she scrunched up her face. I don’t know about your art teacher, but when my art teacher scrunches up her face, it’s not a compliment.
Then she regained her composure, unscrunched her face, and said, “Dogs don’t have right angles, Tom.”
And I said, “Stick dogs do.”
Then she said, “But if you draw stick dogs, all your dog drawings will look the same.”
After she left my desk and walked over to congratulate Jack Krulewitch on drawing a far superior and lovely dog with lots of realistic curves, I decided to prove her wrong. I like proving people wrong. It comes naturally to me.
So these are some other drawings of dogs. As you can no doubt see, they do NOT all look the same. They do look slightly similar, but with certain distinct features to tell them apart from Stick Dog himself. There’s a Dalmatian, a poodle, and a dachshund.
There’s also a mutt. Now, I couldn’t figure out how to draw a mutt, which is a dog made up of many different breeds of dogs all mixed together. So he’s that wavy dude up there. Because, really, a mutt can be just about anything, right? Big, small, long fur, short fur, curly – whatever. So wavy lines in the fur mean mutt. Got it?
I’m glad you get it. My art teacher didn’t. When she came over to look at my drawings again, she scrunched up her face a second time.
She didn’t unscrunch it. And that’s just fine and dandy with me.
Okay, now before we start with the story, you and I need to agree on a few things.
First, you should know that it’s not just dogs that I can’t draw very well. I pretty much can’t draw anything very well. I can’t draw flowers, houses, candy bars, asparagus, donkeys, caterpillars, aeroplanes, elbows, or French fries very well either. In fact, my asparagus stalks look a lot like my French fries. You should get the idea just from this example.
So, the first thing we have to agree on is this: I can’t draw much of anything. Okay?
The second thing we have to agree on is: you’re not going to give me any trouble about my drawing abilities. For instance, you’re not allowed to say something like, “Dude, that drawing of a tree looks like a big thingy of broccoli.”
Actually, trees and broccoli look a lot alike when you really think about it.
But, anyway, you get the point: I admit to you that I can’t draw so well. And you promise that you won’t hassle me about it.
Next, we need to talk about something my English teacher and I don’t agree on. All of a sudden I’m realising I often disagree with many of my teachers. I’m just like that, I guess.
He likes to stand in front of class and say “Good writers follow good rules.” He has lots of rules when it comes to writing. There have to be introductions and conclusions to everything, for instance. Sentences need to have proper structure. He says telling funny stories is for the campfire, not the classroom. He says starting sentences with the word “And” is unacceptable. He says never use sounds for words.
And, umm, yeah, he says a lot of other 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 reme
mber 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!”
What? I like pumpkin pie. So sue me.
My point is, don’t feel bad if you didn’t guess that FOOD was the answer. It happens. It’s no big deal. That said, if you did guess that FOOD was the answer, it doesn’t exactly make you the next Mega-genius of the World or anything. It’s a pretty obvious answer – even if you’re not a dog.
Anyway, Stick Dog and his friends are constantly in search of food. And that’s what this adventure is all about.
This story takes place in the summer. And when you live in the suburbs and it’s the summer, it can mean only one thing. (Actually, it can mean a lot of things, like: It’s time to cut the grass or Let’s go play in the sprinkler or If another mosquito bites me, I’m going to be all out of blood.)
But for Stick Dog, summer in the suburbs means humans are barbecuing. And when humans are barbecuing, the air is filled with the aroma of tasty, sizzling hamburgers. And tasty, sizzling hamburgers are about the best things in the world to Stick Dog.
On this particular afternoon, all of Stick Dog’s buddies – Poo-Poo, Mutt, Stripes, and, of course, Karen – have stopped by. And because the wind is blowing at seven miles per hour from the southwest, the barbecue aromas from Picasso Park are drifting right past the empty pipe beneath Highway 16.
And Stick Dog has caught the scent. He’s got to get a hamburger.
Now, there are two things that can happen as I tell you this story. I can use dog language; you know: yips, yaps, barks – that kind of thing. Or I can interpret all of the dog language for you.
This translation will work for all human readers. And if you’re a dog reader, you really should be at the television station by now.
So, here goes.
“I’ve got to get a hamburger,” Stick Dog said, his stomach rumbling a bit as the meaty smoke wafted past his nose.
“How?” asked Poo-Poo.
“We’re going to need a plan,” Mutt added. “Humans aren’t just going to give us hamburgers.”
“Certainly not. They’re selfish. They want to keep all the hamburgers for themselves.”
Stick Dog shook his head in disgust, muttering under his sweet-smelling dog breath about how humans never share anything. He rose off the couch cushion and, shaking the dirt from his fur, said, “Let’s follow the smell, find the hamburgers. Find the hamburgers, make a plan. Execute the plan, eat the hamburgers.”
“Eat the hamburgers,” Stripes added, “roll around in the dirt scratching our backs.”
“Umm, yeah. Whatever,” said Karen, scrunching up her face.
All of them trailed Stick Dog, who followed the scent towards Picasso Park. But as they went in search of some smoky hamburger goodness, their mission was interrupted by something very bad. Something was lurking in the Forest.
With Stick Dog in the lead, all five dogs sprinted off in search of yummy hamburgers. Twenty paws charging across the twigs, leaves, and sticks of the forest floor created a thunderous racket. But it was a thunderous racket only for a couple of minutes. Then something happened.
Poo-Poo saw a squirrel.
“STOP! Everybody stop!” yelled Poo-Poo as he skidded to a halt.
Karen, Stripes, and Mutt stopped quickly beside Poo-Poo. “What?” they asked.
“Up there!” Poo-Poo exclaimed, and lifted his nose up in the air to point. “Squirrel. In the oak tree!”
The four dogs gathered around the trunk of the tree. Stick Dog stood off to the side. The smell of those hamburgers was even stronger now.
“Hey, you guys,” said Stick Dog. “Let’s keep going and track down those hamburgers. I’m starting to get pretty hungry.”
Poo-Poo snapped his head towards Stick Dog and looked him in the eye. “You must not have heard me,” he said. “There’s a squirrel up there.” He turned back to the tree.
Stick Dog knew this delay would only make his hunger worse. He said, “I heard you, Poo-Poo. And I know how important squirrels are to you. I really do. It’s just that— ”
“They’re more than just important to me,” said Poo-Poo. “That’s a gross under-exaggeration. Squirrels are my arch-enemies! Ever since I was a puppy on the dairy farm, they’ve been torturing me.”
“You grew up on a dairy farm, Poo-Poo?” Mutt asked.
“I think so. I remember there were cows everywhere,” he answered, never once taking his eyes off his enemy in the tree. “And there were squirrels everywhere too. With their sniffy little noses and their chattering sounds. And then those puffy tails. Oooh, I can’t stand those puffy tails.
Like they’re so great. ‘Look at us! We have puffy tails. Aren’t we so special?’”
Stick Dog came a step closer and glanced up into the oak tree. “Poo-Poo, I might not feel quite as strongly as you do about squirrels— ”
“They’re evil!” Poo-Poo interrupted. “Truly evil.”
“Okay, okay. They’re evil,” said Stick Dog. “I just wonder why we have to worry about this particular squirrel in this particular tree at this particular time. We’re on our way to find tasty hamburgers. With a good strategy and some good teamwork, we could be feasting on hamburgers in no time.”
Poo-Poo was quiet and still. Stick Dog hoped that he was absorbing the words and would decide to abandon the squirrel – and continue their mission.
“Did you see that?!” Poo-Poo screamed. “It just twitched its tail at me. Arrgg! I can’t stand it when they do that. That drives me crazy!”
“Could you just forget about it this one time?” Stick Dog asked.
Poo-Poo paused and considered. “Well, maybe. . .”
And then the squirrel dropped an acorn on Poo-Poo’s head.<
br />
Poo-Poo jumped up, barking furiously, and put his front paws as high as he could on the trunk of the tree. “Why you rotten, little, furry, no-good, fuzzy-tailed, nut-eating, acorn-dropping, sneaky, tree-climbing beast!” he yelled.
“What happened?” asked Karen.
“You’re not going to believe what that fuzzy grey trickster did to me!” exclaimed Poo-Poo.
“What? What did he do?” asked Mutt and Stripes.
“That puffy-tailed, nose-twitching, branch-jumping little scoundrel dropped an acorn on my head!”
“He didn’t,” said Karen. “I can’t believe it.”
“He did,” Poo-Poo answered, his eyes fixed on the top branches of that tree.
“This is the last time,” said Poo-Poo, now circling the tree and growling at the uppermost branches. “I’ve had it with their twitchy tails and their oh-so-superior tree-jumping skills and fancy wire-walking expertise. And I’ve really had it with their acorn-dropping ways. It’s time to set things right and restore the natural order of things. Dogs are better than squirrels – and today I’m going to prove it.”
“How are you going to do that, Poo-Poo?” asked Karen.
“I’m not sure, but I’m thinking I’ll just wait here until that squirrel comes down,” said Poo-Poo. He stopped and brought a paw to his chin. “But that might be a while. That nasty, little, grey fluff ball probably has a stash of food up there somewhere. That would be just like a squirrel!”
“So what are you going to do?” asked Mutt.
“I’ll just have to find a way up.”
