Stick Dog Slurps Spaghetti (12 page)

They slurped at the noodles and lapped at the sauce. Even Stick Dog nudged his way into the crowd to take some bites. But he was still curious—very curious about that third pot. He began to reach up to tip it over like the first two. He
had
to know what was inside.

He stretched up toward the table.

And then he stopped.

Do you know why?

I'll tell you.

He noticed that Karen was not getting her fair share of food down on the floor. She kept getting nudged out of the way by the others. It wasn't mean-spirited or on purpose. Mutt, Stripes, and Poo-Poo were just too focused—and too hungry—to make room for her.

“Karen,” Stick Dog said.

“Yes?” she whispered in frustration.

“Hop up on my back,” Stick Dog said, and stooped down a little. He had fallen back to all fours paws again. The third pot would have to wait. “You're perfectly
proportioned for another job.”

“I am?”

“You are.”

“What job?”

Stick Dog nodded at the two tipped-over pots on the table. He could see there were still some remaining noodles and sauce in them. Their contents had not all fallen out.

“You have to finish off everything in the pots.”

Karen couldn't see inside them like Stick Dog could. She was far too short. But she could understand what this job meant: a portion of spaghetti and sauce all to herself.

In less than one second, she hopped onto Stick Dog's back. And she was up onto the table in even less time than that. She pushed herself into the noodle pot first.

The pile of noodles was rapidly disappearing from the floor—and so was the puddle of sauce. Stick Dog decided to get a few more slurps for himself while there was still some left.

For one full minute, the dogs ate loads of spaghetti and tomato sauce. They dipped
the spaghetti into the sauce. They slurped and chewed and smiled as that delicious and hearty spaghetti filled their bellies. Karen exited the noodle pot and entered the sauce pot. She licked the inside clean and savored every bite—and every drop.

While Stick Dog ate, he remained constantly alert for anyone to come back into the kitchen.

Nobody did.

It worked out nicely that Karen stepped out of that second pot right when the others were almost finished licking the floor. She hopped down to Stick Dog's back and then to the floor to join them.

While his friends got the last splotches of red sauce off the floor, Stick Dog propped himself up on the table like before and used his nose to push the pots back toward their original positions. It wasn't hard—the pots were empty now.

He raced to the other side of the table and tugged on the cloth cover again until the pots were back in the center of the table.

He took one look at that third pot—one quick, hard, curious look.

And that's when he heard footsteps—heavy footsteps—coming from outside. He heard pebbles scatter and scratch across the pavement.

The chef was returning.

“Under the table, now!” Stick Dog yelped as loudly as he thought he could without being detected. He ducked back under the table from his side, while Poo-Poo, Mutt, Karen, and Stripes ducked under from their side. He motioned for everyone to be still and quiet. He laid his head flat against the floor and peeked out at the door.

The chef came back into the kitchen. The door closed on the screw, but he didn't seem to notice. It remained cracked open just a bit. The chef took two steps toward the table.

And stopped.

“Chef?” a voice called as the doors swung open.

“It's Penguin Man!” Karen whispered.

“Shh!” said Stick Dog.

“Table three wants to give personal compliments to the chef,” Penguin Man said. “Can you come out?”

“Yes,” the chef answered. “I don't mind
waiting to start cleanup, that's for sure.”

And with that, both humans left the kitchen.

Stick Dog couldn't believe it. The coast was clear.

“Okay, guys. Out. Now!” Stick Dog said quietly but forcefully. He held the tablecloth up so the others wouldn't snag themselves on it. Stripes and Mutt pushed the door open and exited. Karen and Poo-Poo followed.

Stick Dog took one look at that third pot. He considered investigating it but decided the risk was too great. He pivoted to head outside just when the door squeezed shut.

All the way shut.

The long screw that held the door open was gone.

Stick Dog was trapped.

And he heard human footsteps approaching.

Stick Dog ducked back under the table.

He was alone.

Inside.

His friends were together.

Outside.

He had no idea what had happened to that screw. He assumed one of his friends' paws brushed it aside accidentally on their way out.

It didn't matter now. He had to figure out a way to escape.

He did not feel unsafe or vulnerable under the table. It was a good hiding place. The five of them had hidden securely under the table already, after all. Karen had even licked the huge chef's shoes undetected from under there.

No, feeling safe for the time being wasn't the problem.

The problem was, Stick Dog had no idea how he could escape. And in a few seconds, he wouldn't be alone anymore. Those human footsteps grew louder and louder.

He knew the door was heavy—his paw still ached from it. And the door was shut
tightly. The only other way out was the front door. Passing through the dining room and a bunch of human customers to get to that door, which was likely shut tightly too, was out of the question.

For the first time in a long time, Stick Dog didn't know what to do. He crossed his paws on the floor and laid his head down on them. He closed his eyes to think and concentrate. There had to be a way out.

Stick Dog was already deep in thought when the doors to the dining room swung open and someone entered the kitchen. It was not Penelope or the chef.

It was Penguin Man.

He walked right over to the table. Stick Dog could see his shiny black shoes.

“These look good,” the man said to himself. “And plenty of them too.”

Stick Dog heard the man pull something from the third pot on the table. It had to be the third pot. Stick Dog knew the other two pots were
empty—and licked clean by Karen. What was the man grabbing? Stick Dog had to know. His instincts told him he had to know. There was something important in there.

Stick Dog took a huge risk then. He pushed his head out from under the table—and suddenly he could see the whole kitchen. And he could see it safely.

From under the end of the table he stared at the shiny silver refrigerator at the far end of the room. It reflected everything in the kitchen.

Stick Dog watched.

He could see what the man grabbed, and in three more seconds he heard what the man said.

“That's a good meatball,” the man whispered to himself. Stick Dog heard him chew and swallow. He watched him dig his hand into the pot again. The table shook just like before. “And one more for the road.”

Penguin Man chewed, swallowed, and quickly left the kitchen.

“Meatballs?!” Stick Dog whispered as he ducked back under the table.

Balls made out of meat? Stick Dog could hardly believe such a wonderful, glorious, amazing thing existed. He began to salivate.

The third pot had meatballs in it.

He now had two missions: get those meatballs, and escape.

And in less than one minute, Stick Dog got his chance.

The big chef entered the kitchen. Stick Dog recognized his heavy, lumbering footsteps.

“Better get started,” the chef said to himself, and came right to the table. “Hmm. These two pots are already clean. Sparkling, in fact. Ready to use for tomorrow. Penelope must have cleaned them.”

Stick Dog smiled. It was Karen who had cleaned those pots—with her tongue. He listened as the chef paced around the kitchen for several seconds and then came back to the table.

“Lots of
polpette
left,” the chef said. “Can save these for tomorrow.”

Stick Dog heard the same sound—
plop, plop, plop
—over and over. He stuck his head out again and stared into the refrigerator's reflection. He watched the chef put the meatballs in a plastic bag one after the other.

He didn't watch anymore. There were light, quick footsteps approaching. He ducked back under the table.

It was Penelope.

“What can I help you with, Chef?” she asked.

“We're in good shape. I have the meatballs all bagged up for tomorrow, and this is the last pot,” he said. He sounded relieved that their work was nearly done. “Thanks for cleaning the first two pots.”

There was a moment's hesitation then.

“But, Chef, I—” Penelope began to say.

But she was interrupted.

Her cell phone rang.

“
Penelope,” the chef said. He sounded slightly annoyed. “You know I don't like personal calls during work.”

“Sorry, I thought we were done,” she said quickly. “I did, umm, clean the first two pots. Can I just take this call real quick?”

The phone rang in her pocket again. The sound seemed to amplify and echo in the big, empty kitchen.

“All right,” the chef said. “Outside though. Not in here. I don't need to hear you and your BFB—or whatever you call it.”

Penelope giggled and said, “Thanks, Chef!”

As she turned to go out the back door, the chef added, “Prop the door open. I don't
want to have to let you back in.”

And with that, two vitally important things happened.

First, Penelope went out the back doorway. As she did, she slid a metal ring on the big hinge—and the door remained open.

The second thing was just as important. The chef picked up the now empty third pot and carried it to the sink—and left the bag of meatballs on the table. Stick Dog heard his footsteps. He peeked out from under the tablecloth.

The chef turned on the water at the sink and began to scrub the pot. He was turned around. His back was to the kitchen.

Stick Dog scooted out from beneath the table. He stretched up, grabbed the plastic bag of meatballs as quickly and quietly as he could with his mouth.

The chef didn't see—or hear—a thing. The running water at the sink blocked out any other noise.

Stick Dog stalked his way to the open door.
He could hear a snippet of Penelope's phone conversation.

“Crystal! You're not going to believe it!” she practically screamed from outside the open door. “Johnny texted me! OMG!”

Stick Dog slipped outside, stepped out of that single cone of light, and escaped into the darkness of night.