Pickle Is Not a Hot Dog
8 pages · 6 min · ages 5+
“Grandma, do my claws look sharp enough to chop a tree?” Pickle asked, hopping on three paws while his teal vest wiggled. Grandma Dog adjusted her round glasses and smoothed her lilac cardigan. “Much better than claws, sweet puppy,” Grandma Dog said, lifting a fluffy fleece bun with a bright yellow squiggle of felt mustard. Pickle sniffed the warm wool and felt his floppy ears droop. Pickle wanted to win the big squeaky pumpkin trophy for scariest monster on the street, but this bun made him look like lunch. Dad Dog lowered his newspaper and blinked slowly. “Yum,” Dad Dog said.
“Beware the fierce werewolf of the night!” Pickle announced as he strutted down the front porch steps onto the crunchy autumn leaves. Mom Dog twirled in her coral star sweater and navy skirt. “Show Mrs. Poodle your mean werewolf growl, honey,” Mom Dog said. Pickle puffed out his tiny chest, opened his jaws wide, and took a giant breath. Hiccup! A tiny bubble of air squeaked past his tongue instead of a roar. Mrs. Poodle clapped her paws with delight. “Awww, what a darling little hot dog!” Mrs. Poodle cooed. Pickle felt his velvet nose grow hot with embarrassment.
“Beware the fierce werewolf of the night!” Pickle barked through two huge, pointy cardboard fangs taped to his snout. Grandma Dog peeked over her yellow flowered dress and smiled. “Are your pointy teeth comfortable, Pickle?” Grandma Dog asked. “They taste like cardboard and tape, but they are terrifying,” Pickle declared, drooling slightly around the edges. Pickle knew that scary werewolves needed razor fangs to spook the neighborhood cats. He marched bravely up the stone path to Mr. Bulldog’s brightly lit house. The porch smelled like sweet cinnamon cider and crisp night air. Mr. Bulldog opened the door and peered down.
Pickle grinned his widest, sharpest smile to send shivers down Mr. Bulldog’s spine. Plop! Both cardboard fangs detached from his wet snout and tumbled straight into the shiny plastic candy bowl. “Oops,” Pickle whispered, his tummy doing a nervous flip. Mr. Bulldog chuckled, his heavy jowls wobbling like jelly. “Do you want extra candy corn for your bun, little sausage?” Mr. Bulldog asked warmly. Dad Dog peeked over the top of his newspaper and blinked twice. “Classic mustard move,” Dad Dog said. Pickle groaned softly as another trick-or-treater giggled at his squishy plush bun.
“Beware the fierce werewolf of the night!” Pickle shouted, racing across the sidewalk while a giant black satin cape flapped in the breeze. Mom Dog held out his treat bucket shaped like a bone. “Are you flying or stomping, Pickle?” Mom Dog asked with a cheerful grin. “I am a spooky shadow soaring through the dark,” Pickle said proudly. Pickle believed the shadowy cape would finally hide the yellow mustard squiggle on his back. He leaped onto the wooden steps of Mayor Beagle’s house, making his cape billow in the wind. The satin felt silky and cool against his chocolate-brown ears.
Mayor Beagle opened the heavy oak door and clapped his spotted paws in delight. “A flying hot dog with a cape!” Mayor Beagle cheered. “Would you like a bottle of ketchup to match that yellow mustard?” Pickle slumped onto the porch, smelling the smoky campfire from the next yard. He thought his dream of being a terrifying monster was completely ruined. Then Pickle spotted his own reflection in the shiny metal kettle by the door: a mustard-striped sausage with wild puppy eyes. “Wait,” Pickle whispered, his tail giving a quick, sudden thump. “What if a werewolf ate the hot dog?”
Pickle ruffled his chocolate-brown head fur until it stood straight up like wild beast spikes. He tugged the fluffy fleece bun up to his chin so the soft bread looked like giant monster jaws chomping around his waist. Pickle opened his mouth and unleashed a mighty, howling, puppy-power roar that echoed down the block. Awoooooo! The sound bounced off the brick chimneys and made three costumed kittens jump in surprise. “Yikes, an ancient werewolf caught in a giant sandwich trap!” Mayor Beagle laughed, clapping wildly. Pickle felt his chest swell with absolute triumph as everyone cheered.
“Beware the fiercely delicious werewolf of the night!” Pickle howled happily, clutching the golden squeaky-pumpkin trophy in his paws. Grandma Dog wiped a happy tear from behind her round glasses. “I knew that extra mustard would make you famous,” Grandma Dog said. Mom Dog smiled and handed Pickle a crunchy pumpkin biscuit that smelled like sweet honey. Dad Dog lowered his newspaper, revealing a giant cardboard box of french fries strapped securely around his own green shirt. Dad Dog blinked slowly at the crowd. “I am the side order of fries,” Dad Dog said.