About the Author
Nancy Krulik has written over one hundred books for children and young adults, including two New York Times bestsellers. Her very first story (in first grade) was about how she wanted to be Mary Poppins because she wanted to dance in the park with Bert and the penguins. Follow Nancy on Twitter at @Nancykrulik
Sebastien Braun studied fine and applied arts at Strasbourg University. He began his career teaching art, but when he moved to London in 2000, he started to illustrate children's books and has been working on picture books ever since.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
“GRRRRRRR! GET THIS THING OFF OF ME!”
My eyes fly open. I leap onto my paws.
I was asleep. But that barking woke me right up!
“I said, GET THIS THING OFF OF ME!”
It’s coming from my next-door neighbor, Frankie. He’s a German shepherd. When he barks like that, the whole neighborhood can hear him.
What’s going on?
I walk over to my fence and peer through the holes.
Frankie’s two-leg is trying to take something off his back. It looks like a coat that is tied to a leash.
“Get this harness off of me!” Frankie sounds really mad.
Frankie’s two-leg unstraps the coat-leash thing. She takes it inside.
“That’s better,” Frankie says, shaking his body. Then he spots me peeking through the fence. “What are you staring at, Sparky?”
“Nothing,” I tell him. “I just wanted to say hi.”
“Hi,” Frankie grumbles back. “Did you see that awful thing? There is no way I am ever going for a walk with that harness on again. Ever.”
“What’s wrong with a harness?” I ask him.
“Are you nuts?” Frankie yells at me.
“No, I’m Sparky,” I tell him. “Remember?”
Frankie frowns and grumbles something under his breath.
“I like when Josh and I go for a walk with my leash,” I continue. “That way I know we’ll stay together.”
“Dogs are supposed to run free,” Frankie tells me. “My two-leg is so slow. Sometimes I have to pull her just to get her moving.”
“Sometimes I pull Josh, too,” I admit. “And sometimes he pulls me. But the best time is when we walk side by side.”
“Yeah, well, my two-leg can never keep up with me,” Frankie says. “Now she’s making me wear this ridiculous harness instead of a collar when we walk.”
“Why does she do that?” I ask him.
“Why do two-legs do anything?” Frankie asks me.
I don’t have an answer for that.
“I’m telling you, one day I’m going to break free of that thing,” Frankie says. “Then I’m going to run and run and run. Like a dog is supposed to.”
I do not think dogs are meant to run like that. What if I ran really far away, and Josh couldn’t find me? That would be awful.
But I don’t say that to Frankie. I don’t think he is in the mood to hear me argue with him.
Frankie lies down under the tree in his yard.
Snore. Snore. Snore.
Frankie isn’t talking anymore. He’s asleep.
Now I have no one to talk to.
Josh is not home. He went away in his metal machine with the four round paws.
So I have no one to play with, either.
I have nothing to do. Unless . . . Wait! I know something fun I can do all by myself. I can dig!
I race over to the place where Josh keeps his flowers. Diggety, dig, dig. Dirt flies everywhere. I am digging a really big hole. I am a great digger. Diggety, dig . . .
Hey. What’s that in the middle of my hole?
It’s a bone. My bone. My big, bright, sparkly bone.
“Hello, bone!” I bark.
The bone doesn’t answer. Bones can’t bark.
Sniffety, sniff, sniff. The bone smells so meaty. I just have to take a bite.
CHOMP!
Wiggle, waggle, whew. I feel dizzy—like my insides are spinning all around—but my outsides are standing still. Stars are twinkling in front of my eyes—even though it’s daytime! All around me I smell food—fried chicken, salmon, roast beef. But there isn’t any food in sight.
Kaboom! Kaboom! Kaboom!
Chapter 2
The kabooming stops.
I look around. I see trees.
But none of them are my tree!
I see rocks.
But I don’t see my fence.
Or my house.
I don’t know where I am, but I know where I am not. I’m not home anymore. I’m somewhere I’ve never been before.
How did I get here?
Then I remember the meaty-smelling bone I am holding between my teeth.
That’s right! My bone kaboomed me to this place. It can do that because it is a magic bone! It can kaboom me anywhere!
The first time I took a bite of my magic bone, it took me all the way to London, England. London was fun—and yummy, yum, yum. Two-legs there drop all kinds of food: sausages, cheese, fish and chips. They’re all just waiting for a dog like me to scoop them up!
Another time my bone kaboomed me to Paris, France. I got to dance around in puddles of paint, which was a lot of fun—even if the paint turned my paws purple.
I’ve been to a lot of different places with my magic bone. But the best place my bone takes me is home. Whenever I’m ready to leave a place, I just take a bite and my bone brings me right back to the house I share with Josh.
That is why I have to keep my magic bone safe. I do not want some other dog getting its teeth on it. I will need my bone when I am ready to leave this place.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Wiggle, waggle, weird. It sounds like it’s raining. But I don’t feel any water on my fur.
I turn and look around.
Wiggle, waggle, weirder. Those rocks behind me are drooling water. Lots and lots of water. There’s a big pool of rock drool underneath them.
Sometimes I drool when I’m hungry.
But I’ve never seen rocks drool before.
I think I’ll bury my magic bone next to this big pile of drooling rocks. That will make it easy to find when I want to go home again.
I look around to make sure no one is watching where I bury my bone. All I see are trees, bushes, flowers, and rocks. There’s no one here but me.
So I start to dig.
Diggety, dig, dig. Dirt flies all around. I am making a big hole.
I drop my bone into the hole and pushity, push, push the dirt back over it. Now no one will be able to find my bone—except me, of course.
“What you got there?”
Uh-oh. There’s someone else here. And that someone else is another dog. I can tell because she’s speaking dog.
But I don’t see the other dog. She must be hiding.
“Um . . . nothing,” I say quickly.
Just then the other dog comes walking out from behind a big bush. She is all wet. There are leaves in her short brown-and-tan fur.
“You were pretty busy burying something,” she says.
Gulp.
“Was it food?” she asks me.
I shake my head. “No. It was . . . nothing.”
“Okay.” She shrugs. “I’m not hungry, anyway. I just caught a giant fish and ate the whole thing.”
Fish. Yummy, yum, yum. I love fish. Now I’m kind of hungry. And thirsty, too. All that digging is a lot of work.
I walk down to the pool of water below the drooling rocks. I start to lap up some water. Slurp, slurp, slurp.
Yum! The water is nice and cool. Which is great, because this place—whatever it’s called—is really, really hot.
“I’ve never seen a dog like you before,” the other dog says.
“I’ve never seen a dog like you before, either,” I tell her.
“You haven’t run into a pack of African wild dogs in the Serengeti before?” she asks, sounding surprised.
The Serengeti. That must be the name of this place.
“What kind of dog are you, anyway?” she asks me.
“I’m a sheepdog puppy,” I tell her. “My name is Sparky.”
“I’m Rehema,” she says. Then she looks around. “Where’s the rest of your pack?”
My pack? I don’t have a pack. It’s just me and Josh.
But I don’t want to tell her about Josh. I don’t want to say that he went away for a little while in his metal machine with the four round paws and left me in our yard.
Because then she might ask me where my yard is. And how I got here.
I do not want to tell her about my magic bone.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t tell anyone else that you’ve run away from your pack. I’ve run away from my pack, too. I do it all the time. Sometimes a dog’s just got to run free, you know?”
“I guess,” I say.
“I mean, I don’t need some other dog telling me where to hunt. Or when to sleep, or . . .” Rehema keeps talking. I’m having a hard time keeping up with her. She talks really fast.
“If I want to catch my dinner in the morning, then I should be able to catch my dinner in the morning,” Rehema continues. “And if I want to climb to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro, then I should be able to—”
“Mount Kili-what?” I interrupt her.
“Mount Kilimanjaro,” Rehema repeats. “It’s a mountain that’s pretty far away from here. It is so tall, you can’t see the top.”
“Why would you want to climb that?” I ask her.
“I don’t know.” Rehema shrugs. “Because it’s there, I guess. No one should tell me what I can or can’t do. Like, right now, I want to swim. So I’m gonna swim.”
The next thing I know, Rehema is in the big pool of water, paddling around.
“Come on in,” she says. “The water is fine.”
I shake my head. I like to put water in my inside. I don’t like to feel it on my outside.
“Rehema! Rehema!” Another dog is calling Rehema’s name.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
Rehema paddles back to the land and walks out of the water. “Shhh . . .” she whispers. “Be quiet. We don’t want him to know we’re here. Believe me.”
She shoots me a look that tells me I better not ask any more questions. So I just stand there. I don’t move. I don’t speak.
“Rehema, let’s go.” The dog barks even louder. “Now!”
Gulp. That dog sounds really angry. And scary. So scary that I forget I’m supposed to be quiet.
“Why are we hiding?” I whisper to Rehema.
“Shhh . . . ,” my new friend warns. “He’ll hear us. African wild dogs have really good hearing.”
That’s no big deal. I have good hearing, too.
But I don’t say that. I’m trying to shhh.
Just then a brown, black, and tan dog peers through the bushes. He is much bigger than Rehema and me, and he does not look happy.
“The pack is back from the hunt, Rehema,” he growls. “So we’ve got food—no thanks to you.”
“I already ate,” Rehema tells him. “I caught a fish.”
“I’m hungry,” I say.
The big dog looks at me. “Who’s this?” he asks Rehema.
“I’m Sparky,” I tell him.
“He’s a stranger,” the big dog says.
“He’s my friend,” Rehema insists.
“He’s not one of our pack,” the big dog tells her.
“He’s a dog,” Rehema says. “And he’s nice.”
“He’s a different kind of dog,” the other dog grumbles.
“We’re all different, Amiri,” Rehema says. “You have brown and black spots. I have brown and tan spots. Sparky’s practically all white. So what?”
Amiri shakes his head. “You know how risky it is to be around someone who isn’t in the pack,” he says. “The Serengeti is filled with dangerous characters.”
“I’m not dangerous,” I tell him.
“Where’s your pack?” Amiri asks me.
“At home,” I say.
“He’s alone.” Rehema smiles at me.
Grumble rumble. That’s the sound of my tummy telling me that it’s hungry.
“Sounds like you could use some food,” Rehema says. “Let’s go have dinner.”
“Oh brother,” Amiri says. “Another mouth to feed. Just what we need.”
