Golden Dog Books, Book 1

In 52: A Dog's Life and Tales, Being Cute, Shelley Widhalm on January 13, 2013 at 11:30 am

The Fast Cute Puppy (Zoey’s version of “The Poky Little Puppy”)

One cute puppy, and not five little puppies, dug a hole under the fence …

Wait, wait. I don’t dig holes, well, except once when I saw a mole go down a hole and I dug for two hours. The next day, when I had to do the potty thing, I climbed down three stairs and whimpered, owie, owie, owie, limping along from muscles soar and weak.

So, off I went for a walk into the wide, wide world, smelling for smells. Up and down the street and high and low from the trees to my feet, I sniffed and sniffed. And what I encountered as I trotted along was the heavenly scent of beans being ground at the neighborhood coffee shop on Paw Street.

The other puppies stopping for a sniff looked my way and off they went, but I stayed until very, very late. I ran home when the world was asleep and ate up treats that fell to the floor. Crawling into bed, I was happy and full.

The next morning, there was a sign at the fence warning against digging holes. Who had dug the hole that I had used to access the wide, wide world? I found the other puppies sniffing when I trotted to the coffee shop. I barked, “Who dug the hole?”

“Not I,” a little poodle and a spaniel barked back.

“Not I,” a chocolate lab growled.

After sorting things out, we took ourselves on a walk, the four of us, sniffing this way and that way.

“I hear something,” said the lab.

“I smell something,” the poodle said.

And off we went, running toward the source of the smell, which happened to be my house.

“Who dug this hole?” my human mother asked, hands on hips.

“He did.”

“She did.”

“Well, well,” Mother said. “No treats for you. And as for your friends, tell them to fix the fence.”

My three friends and I fixed the fence, but I still wasn’t given a treat, so I went to bed feeling very sorry for myself.

The next morning there was a sign that read: “No treats ever, unless puppies are good girls and boys.”

I was good for seven days in a row.

Mother pointed to an area of the yard.

“You can dig there.” After two hours of futile digging, Mother said, “Good girl.”

I got a treat.

The End.

  1. “Good for seven days in a row”? Well, after all, it IS fiction yr writing. Well done, Zoey!

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