Poo-Poo, Mutt, Karen, and Stripes all looked at each other in sheer and total amazement.
Stick Dog jumped from the front porch, skipping all three steps, and landed next to the gate. He looked through the metal bars to see if any other humans were coming—and was extremely thankful to find there were not. He nudged the gate, but it was definitely latched shut. They were trapped in that small space on the front porch.
“What just happened?” Karen asked, practically in shock.
“We got lucky,” Stick Dog gasped. “Really lucky. I don’t think that human could see or hear very well. I think she thought we were little humans in dog costumes.”
“Humans in dog costumes? That’s ridiculous!” Poo-Poo said. He seemed actually offended by such an idea. “Humans could never disguise themselves as dogs. They can’t run as fast as us for one thing. And the scent alone would give them away. We all have wonderful, distinctive aromas. And humans? Hmmph! They all smell like a soap factory. Yuck!”
Poo-Poo’s disgust and commentary would have likely continued, but it was interrupted by a single sound.
CRUNCH!
Stripes took the first bite of her caramel-covered apple.
The others turned to look at her. They had never seen, smelled, or tasted such an apple before. They were curious and intrigued by it.
Stripes didn’t say anything. She dropped the apple from her mouth and turned quickly to face the others. She closed her eyes as she chewed and swallowed—and smiled. In three seconds, she took her second bite.
That was all the information Poo-Poo, Karen, and Mutt needed. They began crunching and licking and munching. Even Stick Dog delayed formulating an escape plan to eat his caramel-covered apple.
In just a few minutes, the apples were all consumed.
“Oh, man. That was amazing,” Poo-Poo sighed. He lifted his head and closed his eyes. He allowed the flavor to linger in his mouth. He wanted to savor it as long as he could. “That combination of tartness and sweetness is something I’ve never experienced before. The crispy apple and gooey coating created a swirling flavor sensation that awakened my taste buds and satisfied my belly. It was as if—”
But Poo-Poo did not continue his most excellent description.
There was a reason for that.
Stick Dog interrupted him.
“We have to get out of here!” he said urgently. “There will be more humans coming anytime! We have to get this gate open!”
The other dogs saw the concern and heard the anxiety in Stick Dog’s voice. He didn’t often panic. He was always the one who kept his cool. But right now, trapped in this enclosed space, even Stick Dog looked—and sounded—worried. This served to ratchet up the concern among the others instantly.
Poo-Poo left his food description talents behind and volunteered to open the gate himself. “Stick Dog?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“Do you want me to bash my head into the gate?” Poo-Poo asked. He lowered his head and stiffened his shoulders. It was the familiar head-smashing-into-something stance they had all seen before. “I could probably build up some sprinting speed from the porch and leap into the gate. That might help.”
Stick Dog shook his head. “No, Poo-Poo. It’s a metal gate. I don’t think it would budge. And I think it would really, really hurt.”
“Suit yourself. But I’m here if you need me,” Poo-Poo said, and sat down on his hindquarters. He began to lick the Popsicle stick that had been stuck into his apple. He could still taste the remnants of the flavor. He sighed. “Mm-mmm. Apple and drippy goo.”
Stripes, Mutt, and Karen saw that Poo-Poo had discovered some remaining flavor on his stick and began licking their own sticks with great vigor and satisfaction.
“You guys!” Stick Dog said. “Put the sticks away! We have to figure out how to get out of here. Fast!”
Mutt quickly took the stick from his mouth and tucked it into his fur for safekeeping.
“Can you hold mine too?” Karen asked Mutt. “I want to save it for a late-night snack.”
Mutt nodded.
“Mine too?” asked Stripes.
“And mine?” Poo-Poo asked.
Even Stick Dog flung his stick toward Mutt.
“I don’t know if I can fit all five sticks,” Mutt said. He then looked backward over both his shoulders and then down between his front legs. He was obviously determining if he could carry the five sticks. To himself, as much as to his friends, he added, “I need to make some room.”
Mutt shook his whole body in three short bursts of energetic motion. When he did, several things flew from his fur. All about him were scattered a broken coat hanger, a tennis ball with a long tear in it, a pen cap, and a half-eaten sock.
“There,” he said, and smiled triumphantly. “Now I can save them all for you!”
Poo-Poo, Stripes, and Karen watched as Mutt tucked their sticks into his fur to be retrieved later for licking. Stick Dog, however, looked at something else. He examined the things that had sprayed and fallen from Mutt’s fur.
He looked at all the objects and then he looked at the gate. He repeated this twice.
“The doorknob is metal and probably too slick to turn with our paws,” Stick Dog whispered to himself. “And we can’t reach it anyway.”
Stick Dog tilted his head. He considered the dilemma for three seconds.
And then he began to move.
The others watched in silence. They were mesmerized—and confused—by Stick Dog’s actions.
Stick Dog began pushing flowerpots toward the gate. They were heavy with dirt and withered, fading geraniums. He had to push the pots slowly in order for them to slide across the cement without tipping over. There were only four and Stick Dog knew he would need all of them right side up.
After two and a half minutes of pushing and arranging, he finally had the pots in the positions he desired. They stood in a rectangle before the metal gate with each flowerpot representing a corner.
“Stick Dog looks confused,” Karen whispered to Mutt, Poo-Poo, and Stripes.
Stick Dog carefully climbed up into the flowerpots—placing a paw into each one. They tilted and tottered as he stepped into them. The old plants were dry and brittle and scratched roughly against the pads on his paws, but he paid little attention to the pain. He focused solely on finding the perfect, stable balance atop the pots.
“Stick Dog?” asked Karen. Her head was leaned over to one side. She tried to figure out what she was looking at. “Do you feel all right? I think you might be mixed up in the brain or something. You know you’re not a flower, right?”
Stick Dog closed his eyes for a few seconds before answering her.
“I’m fine,” he said upon opening his eyes. “I know I’m not a flower.”
Once situated securely, Stick Dog was tall enough to reach the gate’s doorknob. He raised his front paws one at a time to the gate, pressing against the metal to maintain his equilibrium. He knew that if his weight shifted too far forward, or backward, or left or right, then his back paws would slip and the pots would kick out and tip over—and end this one opportunity he had to help his friends escape.
Carefully, very carefully, he slid his front paws to the gate’s doorknob. It was made of metal and extremely slick. His paw pads gained no traction on the smooth metal surface. Even though he could now reach it, Stick Dog knew there was no way he could ever turn it. But he had expected just such a thing.
And he already had an idea.
Stick Dog called, “Could one of you guys bring me that torn tennis ball, please?”
But none of his friends responded to his request. They were too busy being confused.
“Uhh, guys?” Stick Dog called again. His leg muscles and back were growing tired and sore from maintaining that one position. But he knew he couldn’t budge. He couldn’t risk losing his balance. His voice sounded strained and weak. “The ball, please?”
“Umm, Stick Dog?” Poo-Poo said, and came a step closer. He was not bringing the ball. He stared at Stick Dog’s paws. “You know those aren’t shoes on your paws, don’t you? They’re, umm, flowerpots, man.”
“Yes, I know they’re not shoes,” he answered quickly, and hung his head briefly. Stick Dog knew he had to move this along. Other humans could be coming at any moment. “Bring me the tennis ball, would you?”
Now Stripes came up close to him. She did not have the ball either. “Maybe you better lie down,” she said to him quietly. She didn’t want the others to hear. “I think you need to rest.”
“Why?” Stick Dog said with as much patience as he could muster. “Why do you think I need to lie down?”
“You seem a little confused,” Stripes continued. She spoke in a hushed way—like she was sharing a secret. “You’ve planted yourself in these pots, buddy. You’re trying to grow more of you, Stick Dog. That’s not possible. I’m surprised you don’t know that.”
Stick Dog didn’t even answer. Instead, he turned to Mutt.
“Mutt, bring me that ball. Now. Please.”
Mutt picked up the torn tennis ball and trotted it over to Stick Dog. It went from Mutt’s mouth to Stick Dog’s mouth.
“Here you go,” Mutt said after the exchange took place. “But it seems like kind of a strange time to play fetch—what with us being trapped in here and all.”
Stick Dog was extremely thankful that there was a tennis ball in his mouth. It prevented him from answering Mutt—or saying anything to anybody else.
He turned the tennis ball in his mouth until the torn side faced outward toward the gate. Then, gingerly, he leaned forward as far as he could and pressed the ball against the gate’s doorknob. For a few seconds, it remained pressed in that exact position, but slowly—very slowly—the ball began to slide onto the doorknob through the tear in its side. Then it popped all the way on. Stick Dog opened his mouth and the ball remained on the doorknob—and then he leaned back again.
Poo-Poo, Mutt, Karen, and Stripes all looked back and forth at each other. There was bewilderment and sadness on their faces.
Poo-Poo leaned in toward his friends and whispered, “He’s really lost it, you guys,” and nodded his head twice toward Stick Dog. “He’s trying to make friends with the fence, I think. He gave it the ball.”
“Poor Stick Dog,” Karen sighed quietly.
Stripes and Mutt lowered their heads and shook them.
“Stick Dog,” Poo-Poo called in a louder voice. “That was real, real nice of you to give the tennis ball to that friendly fence. Real nice. Why don’t you come down out of those pots now and let us figure out a way out of here?”
Stick Dog opened his mouth but not to speak. Instead, he bared his teeth and leaned forward again. He bit down on the fuzzy, yellow exterior of the ball. When he did, the rubbery inside of the ball gripped against the doorknob’s smooth, metal surface. Maintaining his bite on the ball—and the handle—Stick Dog slowly twisted his head to the left.
When he did, the doorknob twisted too.
And clicked open.
Stick Dog pulled on the ball and the gate swung toward them. He let go and jumped from the pots.
Holding the gate open, Stick Dog turned to his friends. He said only two words.
“Let’s go.”
