Two Dogs, One Stick

Duke was big. Brown and slow and big.

Pepper was small. Black and fast and small.

They lived on the same street. They walked past each other every single morning. Duke would wag. Pepper would wag. But they never, ever played together.

Then one Tuesday, they both went to the park.

And there it was.

Right in the middle of the grass, shining in the morning sun like it had been waiting all its life — the most perfect stick in the whole entire world.

Not too long. Not too short. Not too bumpy. Not too smooth. It had a little curve at one end, like a handle, and it smelled like the best thing either dog had ever smelled.

Both dogs saw it at exactly the same moment.

Duke's ears went up.

Pepper's ears went up.

Duke ran.

Pepper ran faster.

They grabbed it at the same time — Duke on one end, Pepper on the other.

And they both pulled.

GRRRRR, went Duke.

Grrrrr, went Pepper.

Duke pulled left. Pepper pulled right. Duke pulled RIGHT. Pepper pulled LEFT. They went around and around in a circle, their paws digging little trenches in the grass, dirt flying everywhere.

Neither dog would let go.

They pulled that stick through a puddle — SPLOOSH — mud up their bellies, mud on their ears, mud in places mud should not be.

They pulled that stick under the bench where the old man sat eating his sandwich. The old man lifted his feet. "Oh my," he said.

They pulled that stick right through Mrs. Humphrey's flower garden. Petals went flying like confetti. "HEY!" said Mrs. Humphrey. But they were already gone.

Duke was getting tired. Pepper was getting tired. But neither one would let go. They stood there in the middle of the path, legs shaking, panting, both holding on to that beautiful, perfect, wonderful stick.

Then —

CRACK.

The stick broke right in half.

Duke sat down hard on his big brown bottom.

Pepper tumbled backward, ears over tail, and landed — flump — in a pile of leaves.

Duke looked at his half. It was short. It was splintery. The nice curve was gone.

Pepper looked at her half. It had the curve, but it was too small to carry right. It wasn't special anymore.

The perfect stick was gone.

Duke lay down in the grass and put his chin on his paws.

Pepper lay down in the leaves and put her chin on her paws.

For a long, quiet moment, neither dog moved.

Then Pepper picked up her little half-stick. She walked over to Duke, slow and soft. She dropped it right next to his piece.

Duke sniffed it.

He looked at Pepper.

Pepper's tail gave one tiny wag.

Duke's tail gave one tiny wag back.

Then Duke did something he'd never done before. He stood up, and he picked up BOTH pieces in his big mouth, and he tossed them — up, up into the air!

The two halves flew and tumbled and landed in the grass.

Pepper zoomed after them. She brought them back and dropped them at Duke's feet, shaking all over with happiness.

Duke grabbed them. He tossed them again!

Pepper chased them again!

Back and forth, back and forth, big dog tossing, small dog chasing, both tails going like windshield wipers in a rainstorm.

The stick wasn't perfect anymore.

But the game was.

And when the sun got low and the park turned gold, two muddy dogs walked home on the same street, side by side, with one broken stick carried between them.