Chapter 4

Stick Dog Cannot Fly a Helicopter

“I’ve got it,” said Mutt. He looked excited. “They’re called ‘frankfurters,’ right?”

“Right,” said Stick Dog.

“Okay, here’s the plan,” Mutt continued. “We walk up to the guy. What’s his name? Is it Pumpkin-Head?”

“Peter,” said Stick Dog.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what I meant.” Mutt nodded. “And we say we’re all from the same family. And we say our last name is Furter. Like, you’re Stick Dog Furter. And I’m Mutt Furter. And we introduce Poo-Poo Furter, Stripes Furter, and Karen Furter.”

“Go on,” Stick Dog said real slowly. It appeared he didn’t like where this whole idea was going.

“Then,” said Mutt, “we tell Pumpkin-Head . . .”

“Peter.”

“Yeah, Peter. We say, ‘Hey, Peter. We’re missing a member of our family. We desperately need to find him. We’re so worried.’ And then Pumpkin-Head says . . .”

“Peter.”

Mutt shook his head back and forth. “Right, Peter. Then, Peter says, ‘Oh no, that’s terrible. What’s his name?”

Stick Dog, Karen, Stripes, and Poo-Poo all stared at Mutt. But he didn’t say anything.

“And?” asked Stick Dog finally.

“And,” said Mutt, getting excited. “We say, ‘Frank!’ Frank Furter! Get it? Frankfurter! Then we say, ‘Have you seen any Frank Furters around here, Pumpkin-Head?’ And he says, ‘Boy, have I! I’ve seen about fifty frankfurters right here in this cart. And since they’re all members of your family, you should take them home with you.’”

Stick Dog closed his eyes. “Umm.”

“Yeah?” said Mutt. He was very excited. “It’s great, isn’t it?”

“It is great,” said Stick Dog, trying to let him down easy. “It’s great in a sort of non-great way. Sort of. Umm, yeah.”

“What do you mean?” asked Mutt, tilting his head a little to the left.

“Well, we don’t really look like we’re all from the same family,” Stick Dog said, nodding his head toward each of them. “It’s hard for a Dalmatian, dachshund, poodle, mutt, and whatever-I-am to be from the same family.”

“Umm, HEL-LO!” Mutt said. “Adoption? Ever hear of it?”

Stick Dog nodded his head. “I have heard of it, yes. And that may explain all of us being from the same family, but that still doesn’t explain how a rolled-up piece of meat stuck in a folded-up piece of bread is related to us.”

This seemed to suddenly make sense to Mutt. “Not going to work?”

“Oh, I’m not saying that at all,” said Stick Dog. “But because there is just a sliver of doubt about its feasibility, maybe we should listen to some other ideas too.”

Mutt nodded his head. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Never fear,” declared Poo-Poo. “I know exactly how to get those frankfurters.”

“Let’s hear it,” said Stick Dog. And Karen, Stripes, and a somewhat-dejected Mutt all nodded along in agreement.

“Well, you remember how we got those hamburgers at Picasso Park that one day?” Poo-Poo began. They all remembered because it was, of course, one of the best days of their entire lives.

“Yes, we remember,” answered Stick Dog.

“How could we forget?” said Karen, a little drool falling down to the ground from the corner of her mouth. Now, that’s really not all that disgusting, because Karen is, after all, a dachshund—so the drool didn’t have all that far to fall. Now, if the drool was falling, say, from the corner of your mouth? That would be gross.

“Well,” Poo-Poo continued. “We get a bunch more of those hamburgers, and we slowly saunter by Piddly-Pants there.”

“You mean Peter.”

“Yeah, Peter. We saunter by Peter, eating those hamburgers real casual-like. Really enjoying them, you know? Groaning and moaning about how super-tasty they are. Letting some of that meaty hamburger juice drip down our chins. Yeah, that’s what we do.”

“Umm,” started Stick Dog. Then he waited a minute and asked, “Why?”

“Why?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Don’t you see?” asked Poo-Poo, sounding exasperated. “Piddly-Pants sells frankfurters. Hamburgers are probably the natural enemy to someone who sells frankfurters. If he sees that we’re all enjoying a bunch of delicious hamburgers, he’ll want to convince us that we’re wrong. He’ll want to convince us that frankfurters are so much better. And to do that, he’ll dish out frankfurters to us by the dozen! We’ll be eating frankfurters for hours.”

“Poo-Poo?”

“You don’t have to say it, Stick Dog,” said Poo-Poo proudly. “I know it’s a great plan. You don’t have to congratulate me or anything.”

“We don’t have any hamburgers,” said Stick Dog. “And if we did have hamburgers, we wouldn’t really be worried about getting frankfurters. You know what I mean? And his name is Peter, not Piddly-Pants.”

Poo-Poo looked a little sad—and a little disappointed—when Stick Dog pointed out this flaw in his plan. Stick Dog saw this and added, “You know, Poo-Poo, that’s a really sophisticated plan you came up with. Using the hamburgers as a way to stir the jealousy instincts in a human has probably never been considered before. You are, no doubt, the only creature on the planet who could come up with it.”

Poo-Poo lifted his head. A smile had returned to his face. “I am quite unique, aren’t I?”

“Without question,” answered Stick Dog, and then he turned to the others. “Well, does anybody have any other ideas?”

“I do,” said Stripes. “I do indeed.”

Stick Dog inhaled a great big breath and asked, “What is it?”

Stripes smirked a little bit, smiling from one corner of her mouth. She was obviously very pleased with herself. “The first thing we need,” said Stripes, “is a helicopter. Then . . .”

“Stop right there,” said Stick Dog.

“Yes?”

“Where are we going to get a helicopter?”

When Stripes looked at Stick Dog, you could tell she thought Stick Dog wasn’t very bright at all. “The helicopter store. Where else?”

“There’s no such place as a helicopter store,” sighed Stick Dog.

But by this time, Stripes was already chattering ahead with her plan. “We take the helicopter. And we fly it over to Patsy Puffenstuff over there.”

“His name’s Peter.”

“Whatever,” said Stripes. “We hover the helicopter over the frankfurter cart. Then a couple of us get lowered down on a rope ladder from the open door of the helicopter. While Patsy Puffenstuff is getting totally blown away by the wind from the helicopter blades, we snatch all the frankfurters we can grab. One of us pulls the others back up; we land the helicopter by Stick Dog’s house and have the feast of a lifetime.”

Mutt, Karen, and Poo-Poo were all nodding along in agreement with Stripes. And the more Stripes got excited, the more the three of them got excited too. By the time Stripes had provided the final details of her plan, she was jumping up and down in place.

She yelled, “Off to the helicopter store! Follow me!”

Poo-Poo, Mutt, and Karen wheeled around to take off after her.

“Stop,” said Stick Dog calmly. “Where are you going?”

“The helicopter store,” answered Mutt, skidding to a stop just after he had taken a few quick steps. The other dogs stopped too.

“There’s no such thing,” said Stick Dog.

“Sure there is,” said Mutt, but he was starting to sound a little doubtful. He knew that Stick Dog was usually right about such things.

“Where is it?”

“Well,” said Mutt, and then he paused for a moment. “I’m not positive. But Stripes knows. Yeah, that’s it! Stripes knows! We’re all following Stripes.”

“What the heck, let’s say there is such a thing as a helicopter store,” said Stick Dog. “Can you tell me where it is, Stripes? Where is it that you are running off to just now?”

“I’m . . . not . . . sure,” answered Stripes, then she gained her confidence back a little. “To the mall. I bet there’s a helicopter store at the mall. That’s where we’re going. You betcha.”

“Umm, okay,” said Stick Dog. “Let’s go ahead and say that there’s such a thing as a helicopter store. And let’s assume that just such a store is at our local shopping mall. After all, that mall has about every other kind of store. So why not a helicopter store? How much does a helicopter cost anyway?”

“A dollar?” answered Stripes. “Two dollars? Maybe? We can probably find that much change in the parking lot.”

“I think it may cost a little more than that. But you know what? I’ve never bought a helicopter before, so what do I know?”

“Maybe they’re having a big sale today,” said Mutt, trying to help.

“Maybe so,” said Stick Dog. “So let’s go ahead and say there is such a thing as a helicopter store. And let’s say there is one at the mall. And let’s say it costs one dollar—because of the big helicopter sale today. I still have one question.”

Stripes closed her eyes. She really, really, really didn’t want to know what Stick Dog’s next question was. “Yes?”

“Do any of us know how to fly a helicopter?”

Stripes kicked at some dirt with her front left paw. “Shoot,” she said, and hung her head.

“If it wasn’t for that one detail,” said Stick Dog.

Then Stripes lifted her head and started to smile a little to herself just for a moment before straightening her face again. “I thought YOU knew how to fly a helicopter, Stick Dog.”

Stick Dog began to shake his head and speak, but he didn’t get the chance because Stripes turned to the other three dogs and began speaking herself.

“Forget it, you guys,” she said, and sort of nodded a couple of times toward Stick Dog. “The helicopter plan isn’t going to work, after all. I had everything all worked out, but Stick Dog doesn’t know how to be a helicopter pilot. So the plan is ruined. Thanks to him.”

“But . . . ,” began Stick Dog.

But Stripes interrupted him again. “No, no,” she said. “Don’t worry about it, Stick Dog. You don’t have to apologize to me. It’s okay. I’m not mad at you for ruining my most excellent plan with your lack of helicopter-piloting skills. Oh, I am a little disappointed in you, that’s true. But not mad. You’re still my good friend. I do wish I could depend on you to do your part when it comes to such things, but it’s okay. We’ll get through it.”

Stick Dog just stared. And stared. Finally, he said, “Well, Stripes, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” said Stripes. “It’s okay.”

“Thanks,” said Stick Dog. And then he turned to Karen. “You must have a plan too. Is it a good plan?”

“It’s not a good plan. It’s not even a great plan,” said Karen. “It is definitely the most extra-spectacular splendiferous frankfurter-snatching strategy of all time.”

“Okay,” Stick Dog said. “Out with it then.”

“It’s so brilliant because it’s so simple,” Karen began, and started to pace in front of the other four dogs. “We’re going to walk right up to old Prickle Pop there and . . .”

“His name’s Peter,” Stick Dog whispered.

“Mm-hmm, yeah. That’s what I said,” replied Karen, never missing one of her little dachshund strides. “Anyway, this marvelous plan is going to work for one reason: greed.”

“Greed?” asked Stick Dog.

“Greed,” answered Karen. Then she did something rather odd. And, let’s face it, rather odd for this bunch of dogs is going to be pretty darn peculiar. Karen stopped pacing back and forth and said, “Watch this.”

Stick Dog, Poo-Poo, Mutt, and Stripes all watched as Karen proceeded to drop down on the ground and tuck her little dachshund legs up close to her long dachshund tummy. Then she curled her tail up underneath and between her legs. Finally, she tucked her chin close to her chest and, trying not to move her lips at all, said, “What am I?”

“A dachshund who just forgot how to walk,” guessed Mutt.

“No.”

“Ooh! I love guessing games,” said Poo-Poo. “You’re a furry torpedo!”

“No.”

Stripes walked a couple of circles around Karen, staring down and examining her the whole time. “I think I got it,” she said. “You’re a gorilla who fell asleep wearing a dachshund costume.”

“No!” said Karen, feeling a little exasperated. “Stick Dog? Do you have a guess?”

Stick Dog did indeed have a guess. He wanted to say, “You are the weirdest dog on the planet!”—but he didn’t. He simply said, “No, I don’t have a guess. I give up. What are you?”

“Duh,” said Karen, lifting her little chin up slightly and looking at herself. “I’m a frankfurter! See the color!? The shape!? Everything?!”

“Umm, okay,” said Stick Dog. “You’re an awfully large frankfurter, by the way. But let’s try and see past that. Let’s say everybody—including Peter—believes you are a frankfurter. What’s the rest of your plan after you’re done imitating a frankfurter?”

Karen looked at Stick Dog like his brain had just turned into a rawhide chew. She sighed. “Do I really have to explain it? It’s so simple.”

“Umm, yes,” said Stick Dog. “Please explain it.”

“When Prickle Pop . . .”

“Peter,” corrected Stick Dog.

“Right, right. That’s what I said,” said Karen. “When he sees me, he’s going to think he hit the jackpot. I’ll be the world-record, biggest frankfurter he’s ever seen. He’ll do anything to have me. Think about it: His whole world revolves around frankfurters. And when he sees me, his greed will overtake him. He’ll do anything to get me. You can trade me in for all the other frankfurters!”

They just looked at Karen, so she continued with her plan.

“After you get those frankfurters from the cart, he’ll put me down to admire me. He’ll think he is in some crazy, beautiful dream with the world’s largest, most magnificent frankfurter right there for him to have and to hold.”

“What then? What will you do when Prickle Pop—” Stick Dog said. Then he stopped. He looked down at the ground and shook his head a couple of times before looking back up. “I mean Peter. What will you do when Peter is admiring you?”

“That’s easy,” said Karen. There was a clear sense of superiority in her voice. “I’ll pop out my legs and run all the way to your pipe, Stick Dog. Save some frankfurters for me! Yeah, baby! Brilliant plan, huh?”

Stick Dog had grown more and more impatient. And his stomach had grown more and more grumbly. He usually tried to be polite when one of his friends had a plan that was a little, umm, not so good. But now he had just had enough.

When was the last time you had had enough? I’ll tell you mine. I was taking out the garbage. Do you have to take out the garbage? Well, I do.

It was one of those big, white, plastic, stretchy bags from the kitchen garbage can. It had a bunch of old food and paper and old cleaning rags in it. And my mom had just dumped all the dust and yuck from the vacuum cleaner in there. You know that big, gray clump of grossness that has dust and hair and shoe mud all swirled around inside it like a tornado? The bag was full of it along with all the other garbage stuff.

So I’m taking it out to the end of the driveway, right? Only it’s really heavy this time. Now, I’m pretty strong. I can break a stick in half right over my knee! How about that? Yeah, it’s true—totally true.

Anyway, I’m strong.

But that garbage bag was real heavy, so I had to sort of drag it to the can instead of carry it. And about halfway down the driveway, it started tearing. Only I didn’t know it started tearing. So by the time I got to the can, most of the garbage was spread out behind me in a line on the driveway.

And—NO!—I didn’t happen to notice that the bag was getting lighter. So please don’t ask.

Well, I had to go pick up all that filth and yuck with my hands. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth until it was all back in the bag. I was so mad that I kicked the bag.

And all the dust and hair from the vacuum cleaner came POOFing out in a great cloud of terrible-ness right into my face.

That was the last time I had had enough.

All of a sudden, I feel like taking a shower.

So this time, it was Stick Dog who had had enough. He looked at Karen, who was still kind of strutting around about the genius-ness of her plan. Stick Dog just said, “Frankfurters don’t have fur. Peter will never believe it.”

All four of the other dogs looked at Stick Dog with their heads sort of turned sideways like he was speaking a foreign language—like cat language or turtle language or pumpkin language.

“What is it?” Stick Dog asked.

They all asked at the same time, “Who is Peter?”

Stick Dog closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them slowly, very slowly. “Peter is the man over there with the frankfurter cart. Remember?”

Then all four of them started nodding their heads with great energy and enthusiasm.

“Okay. Those were four great plans—really, they were,” Stick Dog said with as much sincerity as he could muster. “But I think I have a plan that might just work, if you all agree.”

“What’s your plan?” asked Poo-Poo. Stripes, Mutt, and Karen had gathered around Stick Dog to listen.

“Well, look over there. See where Peter has his frankfurter cart parked?” Stick Dog said. And before he could be interrupted, he added, “Peter is the one working at the cart.”

The four other dogs looked over at the cart and then back at Stick Dog.

“Well, somebody is drying their clothes in the yard right next to where he’s parked. See the clothes and sheets and stuff flapping in the wind? And there’s a basket of folded laundry too. I think we can sneak around the back of that blue house to right where all those clothes are hanging. We’ll get behind one of those two sheets hanging there. As soon as he turns his head to look in the other direction, we’ll pounce out from behind the laundry, grab some frankfurters, and run like crazy.”

Stick Dog looked to see the reactions of his four friends.

“What a lousy plan,” said Karen.

“All of our plans were much more sophisticated and brilliant,” said Mutt.

“What a bogus plan,” said Poo-Poo.

“Pretty simple, isn’t it?” sighed Stripes.

Stick Dog gathered himself together a little bit. He wanted those frankfurters really badly. And he wanted to end this conversation almost as much. So all he said was “You’re right. You’re right. You’re all correct. It’s not a very good plan at all. It’s rather simple and boring. And your plans were all so much better in so many ways. But I wonder if we could just try mine out? Could we? Are you with me?”

It was just the kind of encouragement they needed.

“Yes!” they all shouted together.

After they calmed down a little, Mutt asked, “Stick Dog?”

“Yes?”

Mutt glanced down the street, then quickly back at Stick Dog. “I think we better hurry.”

“Why?”

“That raccoon is getting closer to the frankfurter cart.”

Stick Dog could instantly see that Mutt was correct. He had been so busy listening to his friends’ plans that Stick Dog had neglected to keep a watchful eye on the raccoon. It was no longer in the maple tree four houses away from the cart. It was now in a pine tree three houses away.

The others saw it, as well.

Poo-Poo couldn’t stand it. “Errgh!” he snarled, and began pacing. “It’s getting closer. It’s going to get there first! What are we going to do, Stick Dog?”

“It’s okay,” Stick Dog said. “But we do need to hurry.”

“We need to do something else too,” added Karen.

“What’s that?” Stripes asked, and tilted her head.

“We need to give the raccoon a name,” she said simply.

“A name?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Karen as if this was a perfectly logical thing to do. “If we’re going to have a nemesis who is trying to snatch what is rightfully ours, it needs to have a name—an evil name.”

Stick Dog could hardly believe what he was hearing. They had to hurry. He knew that raccoons were quite capable of finding and retrieving food. He’d seen enough toppled trash cans and ripped-open garbage bags to know that. He also knew that raccoons had powerful, sharp claws. He’d seen plenty of tracks in the woods and outside his pipe below Highway 16. He did not want to mess with a raccoon—and he certainly didn’t want one to get the frankfurters before they did.

But instead of hustling along with their plan, they were going to waste precious time naming the raccoon. He was just about to put a stop to this nonsense when Mutt spoke up.

“I have a problem with this whole naming business,” said Mutt.

Stick Dog exhaled a little to himself. Finally, someone else saw how silly this was.

“What is it, Mutt?”

“Well, we don’t know if our new raccoon enemy is a boy or a girl,” he explained. “That’s going to make it difficult to come up with a name.”

Karen, Poo-Poo, and Stripes nodded in complete understanding. Stick Dog just stood there getting hungrier. He was trying not to let his frustration show.

Karen, who had come up with the whole naming idea, took charge of the conversation. “Look, let’s just throw out some name suggestions for the evil raccoon and see what works best,” she said. “Remember the whole boy-girl problem as you make your suggestions. Try to stay away from names that are too girl- or boy-specific.”

This seemed to make good sense to the others. Even Stick Dog agreed, but solely because he wanted to move the give-the-raccoon-food-snatcher-a-name process along as fast as possible.

The suggestions came at a furious pace from all of them except Stick Dog.

“DespicaBeast!”

“Masked Mobster!”

“Racc-a-Doom!”

“Devil-Meister!”

“The Raccoon Typhoon!”

While Stick Dog listened to these and other suggestions, his stomach became impatient. It grumbled loudly. It was as if his body was telling him to put an end to all this naming business.

“Okay, guys,” he interjected in a firm but friendly voice. “Those are all great suggestions. But we better get moving here. The next name is the winner.”

You would think that would make them all blurt out a choice quickly. But the opposite was actually true. There was a slight hesitation as they each considered and tried to come up with something really good. But it was Mutt who spoke up first. And it was Mutt who chose the name of their new raccoon nemesis.

It was Mutt who said, “Phyllis!”

“Phyllis it is,” Stick Dog said instantly, before anyone could object. He nodded toward the house with the drying laundry in the yard. “This way, as fast as we can!”

As if to add a greater sense of urgency and a spirit of teamwork, Karen exclaimed, “Down with Phyllis!”

And they took off.