Pup Art #9 Read online

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Penguin Young Readers Group

  An Imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

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  Text copyright © 2015 by Nancy Krulik. Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Sebastien Braun. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-0-399-53997-8

  Version_1

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  FUN FACTS ABOUT SPARKY’S ADVENTURES IN PARIS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  For Danny, je t’aime—NK

  A la mémoire de mon parrain Daniel, et `a Dorian et Timothy!—SB

  CHAPTER 1

  “No! No! No!”

  I bark as loud as I can. But my two-leg, Josh, is still pouring water all over me. And he won’t stop. That’s because Josh doesn’t speak dog. And I don’t speak two-leg.

  So I’m stuck standing in this big dog bed. It’s not a soft, fuzzy, comfy dog bed like the one I sleep in. This dog bed is hard and cold. And now it’s wet.

  I don’t like hard, cold, and wet.

  “No! No! No!” I bark again.

  But Josh keeps pouring. Splash, splash, splash.

  Shakity, shake, shake! Water flies everywhere!

  Josh jumps out of the way. I guess he doesn’t like being wet, either.

  Boing! Boing! My paws are bouncing up and down. They want to jump out of this hard, cold dog bed. Here I go . . .

  Oomf! “No! No! No!”

  Josh is holding me down. And he’s pouring more water on me.

  Splash! Splash!

  I’m all wet.

  Now Josh is pouring something into his paws.

  I stick my nose into his paws and take a sniff.

  Sniffety, sniff, sniff.

  The stuff in Josh’s paws smells sweet. Like a treat.

  Lickety, lick, yuck!

  That doesn’t taste like a sweet treat. It tastes awful.

  Josh starts rubbing the sweet-smelling, yucky-tasting stuff all over my fur. No! I don’t want to smell like a sweet treat. I want to smell like a dog.

  “Stop, Josh! Stop!” I bark.

  I have to get out of here.

  Wiggle, waggle, whee! My paws leap out of the cold, hard dog bed.

  Josh tries to force me back in. But I push past him. I run through the house. Josh follows close behind.

  I keep running. Fast. Faster. Fastest.

  “Sparky!”

  Josh yells my name. Then he says something else. I don’t know what he is saying. But I can tell he is angry.

  I do not like it when Josh is angry with me. I stop running. I look at him and cock my head to the side. That usually makes him smile.

  But not today. Today, Josh is frowning and pointing at the floor.

  I look down. I see wet paw prints. Josh must not like wet paw prints on his floor.

  Josh reaches for me. I think he wants to put me back in the cold, hard, wet dog bed. I think he wants to slather gooey, sweet-smelling, awful-tasting stuff on me.

  I love Josh. But I can’t let him do that. I run through my doggie door and into the yard.

  The yard is all muddy. Mud makes me happy.

  I lie down on the ground and start to roll in the mud.

  Now Josh is outside, too. But he is not happy. He is shouting.

  “Don’t shout, Josh,” I bark. “Come and roll in the mud with me! It’s fun!”

  But Josh doesn’t roll in the mud.He comes over and puts my collar on me. Then he stomps off through the gate. Now I can’t see him anymore.

  But I can hear him.

  Slam! It sounds like Josh has just gotten into his big metal machine, the one with the four round paws. Now it sounds like the metal machine is going away.

  Josh is gone.

  And I am still here. All alone. With nothing but mud and dirt to play with.

  But it’s okay. I love mud and dirt. Mud is fun to roll in. And dirt is fun to dig in.

  I run to where the flowers are. There’s lots of great digging dirt there. I start to dig.

  Diggety, dig, dig.

  Diggety, dig, dig.

  Diggety, dig . . . WOW! What’s this? I found something buried deep in the dirt. It’s a bone! A bright, sparkly, beautiful 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 lots and lots of grass. And flowers. But they don’t look like the flowers in my yard.

  I don’t see my tree. Or my fence. Or my house.

  I don’t know where I am, but I know where I’m not. I’m not in my yard anymore. I’m in some sort of park. How did I get here?

  The meaty bone scratches against my teeth. Oh, that’s right. My bone.

  That’s how I got here. My bone is magic. This isn’t the first time it has kaboomed me out of my yard and into someplace else.

  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. You wouldn’t believe the snacks the two-legs there leave on the floor for dogs like me. Sausages, cheese, fish, and chips. That’s what the dogs in London call fries.

  Another time, my magic bone kaboomed me to Washington, DC. I met my friend Fala there. He was a funny dog. He sneezed whenever he smelled flowers. Fala would sure have a tough time in this park! There are flowers everywhere!

  I wonder where my magic bone has kaboomed me today. I’ve never seen a park like this before.

  Maybe one of those poodles over there by the benches can tell me where I am.

  At least I think those are poodles. They’re attached to their two-legs by leashes. They have tails. And paws. And lots of curly fur, just like the poodles I met at my dog school.

  But I’ve never seen any dog with fur that color. It’s not brown or black or white or gray. Their fur is the color of the squishy salmon I ate in Tokyo.

  I wonder if they speak dog. “Hi there, poodles,” I bark to them.


  They lift their snouts and turn away from me.

  Maybe they don’t understand me. Maybe they aren’t dogs, after all.

  “Did you hear something?” one poodle says to the other. She’s talking dog! She’s just not talking to me.

  “I think it came from that stray over there,” the other poodle says.

  “I’m not a stray,” I tell her. “I have a Josh at home.”

  But the poodles aren’t listening to me.

  “I don’t talk to strays,” the first poodle says.

  “Strays are disgusting,” the other one adds. She sniffs at the air. “He smells like a dog.”

  “Of course I smell like a dog,” I bark. “I am a dog.”

  I walk over to the poodles and try to sniff their butts. But they move away.

  That’s okay. I got a little sniff, anyway. And I didn’t like it. Those poodles smell like the gooey stuff Josh tried to rub all over my fur. Yuck.

  The poodles and their two-legs walk away.

  I never got to ask them the name of this place. Oh well. Maybe a nicer dog will come by soon.

  But before I meet anyone else, I better hide my bone. I don’t want any other dog to get his teeth on it. Because I will need my magic bone when I am ready to leave this place.

  That’s the great thing about my magic bone. It kabooms me to faraway places. But it always kabooms me back home again.

  I think I’ll bury my magic bone right here by these flowers.

  Diggety, dig, dig. Dirt flies all around me. I want to bury my bone deep in the dirt.

  I drop my bone in 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.

  “Bonjour.”

  Gulp. Did I just hear some dog say bone?

  CHAPTER 3

  “BONE JOOR.”

  I hear the words again. Louder this time. I don’t know what a joor is, but I sure know the word bone!

  I turn around to see a chubby French bulldog staring at me.

  “Wh-wh-what bone?” I ask him nervously.

  The French bulldog cocks his head. “Not bone,” he says. “Bonjour. Hello.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. But I am glad he isn’t asking about my bone.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks me.

  I shake my head. “I don’t even know where here is,” I admit.

  “This is Paris, France,” the bulldog says. “Where are you from?”

  “Josh’s house,” I answer.

  “I never heard of that city,” the bulldog says.

  “It’s not a city,” I explain. “Josh is my two-leg.”

  “You have a two-leg?” The bulldog looks around. “Where is he?”

  Um . . . I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to have to tell the bulldog about my magic bone that kaboomed me away from Josh’s house.

  “Josh . . . uh . . . went away in his metal machine with four round paws,” I answer finally. It’s the truth. Just not all of the truth. “Where’s your two-leg?” I ask him.

  The bulldog lowers his head. “I don’t have one,” he says quietly.

  He sounds sad.

  That makes me sad.

  The bulldog shakes his head, hard. Like he’s trying to shake the sad thoughts away. “Anyway, my name’s Pierre,” he says.

  Grumble, rumble. Just then my tummy starts talking. And I know what it’s saying. “I’m hungry,” I tell Pierre.

  Pierre laughs. “Hungry?” he says. “That’s a funny name.”

  “My name’s not Hungry,” I tell him. “It’s Sparky. But my tummy is hungry. Do you have any good scraps around here?”

  Pierre smiles. “Are you kidding?” he asks me. “This is Paris. We have the best food in the whole world.”

  I don’t know about that. I had amazing sausage in Rome. The barbecue scraps I ate at a Texas rodeo were incredible. And Josh makes yummy cheesy eggs.

  “Come on,” Pierre says. “I’ll find you the best scraps you’ve ever had.”

  Grumble, rumble. My tummy sounds ready to give Paris food a try. So I follow Pierre out of the park. We walk down a long, narrow street.

  Sniffety, sniff, sniff. My nose starts to twitch. It smells something yummy, yum, yum.

  “What’s that smell?” I ask Pierre.

  “Crêpes,” Pierre says.

  I give him a funny look. “Crapes?” I repeat. “I’ve never tasted them. Are they like grapes?”

  Pierre shakes his head. “No. They’re thin pancakes filled with meat, cheese, or fruit.”

  I’m not sure what a pancake is. But I know all about meat, cheese, and fruit.

  “Let’s get some!” I shout. I start to run toward the smell.

  “Right behind you,” Pierre says.

  The smell gets closer and closer as I run.

  My paws run and run. And then they stop. Right in front of a big table.

  I look up. There’s a two-leg sitting in a chair. She’s eating something. And in the chair next to her . . .

  “Hey!” I shout to Pierre. “I know that poodle. She’s mean.”

  Pierre nods. “Her name’s Fifi. She thinks she’s great because she goes to a groomer.”

  “What’s a groomer?” I ask.

  “A two-leg who cuts her fur and paints it that funny pink color,” Pierre says. “He also gives her baths with flowery, sweet-smelling soap.”

  “Josh tried to put sweet-smelling goo on me,” I tell Pierre. “But I wouldn’t let him do it.”

  “Fifi’s lucky,” Pierre says with a frown. “She has a two-leg to feed her. She doesn’t have to go searching for scraps.”

  “Do you want a two-leg?” I ask Pierre.

  “It would be nice to find a two-leg,” Pierre tells me. “One that needs my help. I would love to get up every morning and do something important.”

  I wonder what Pierre means by that. “I play with Josh,” I tell him. “I sleep with Josh. And cuddle on the couch while he stares at that box with the teeny-tiny two-legs inside. Is that important?”

  “Sure. If you and Josh think it is,” Pierre says. “But what’s important right now is getting some scraps.” He looks up. “Fifi, how about tossing a little of that cheese crêpe down here?”

  Fifi doesn’t even look at us. She sticks her snout in the air. “I smell a stray,” she barks.

  Pierre looks at the ground. I can tell he feels bad about being called a stray.

  “It’s not Pierre’s fault he doesn’t have a two-leg,” I bark back at the snooty poodle. “But it is your fault that you’re mean!”

  Fifi glares at me. Then she takes a big bite of food. She smiles as she chews it.

  I really don’t like that poodle.

  “Come on, Sparky,” Pierre says. “We’re not getting any scraps from that dog. Let’s go somewhere else.”

  I turn my back on Fifi and follow Pierre.

  Toot! I hear a sound coming from underneath my tail. And I hear Fifi call out, “PU!”

  But I don’t care. I really don’t like that dog. And neither does my rear.

  Because that toot sure doesn’t smell like flowers!

  CHAPTER 4

  Huff, puff. Huff, puff.

  My mouth is huffing and puffing. My tongue is sticking out of my mouth. I’m hot. And thirsty.

  “Why are we walking up this big hill?” I ask Pierre.

  “We’re going to find scraps,” Pierre explains.

  “Can’t we find scraps down the hill?” I wonder.

  “We’re going to a neighborhood where there are lots of two-legs wandering around,” Pierre tells me. “And wherever there are lots of two-legs . . .”

  “There are lots of scraps,” I finish. Two-legs are sloppy eaters. And they never
want to eat food after it hits the floor. Which means more for me.

  Huff, puff. Huff, puff. I walk a little faster. I can’t wait to get to all those scraps.

  I don’t have to wait long. A nearby two-leg drops some sort of bread on the ground.

  Chomp! It’s chewy. And sweet.

  “What kind of bread is this?” I ask Pierre.

  Pierre takes a bite, too. “It’s called a croissant. There’s some raspberry jam on it.”

  I have never tasted anything like this craw-sont. It is so yummy, yum, yum. But there isn’t a lot of it. “I want more,” I say.

  “Follow the two-legs,” Pierre says. “Someone else might drop one.”

  “How about one of them?” I point my snout toward some two-legs sitting in chairs.

  “Those are the artists,” Pierre tells me. “They don’t eat. They just paint.”

  “They what?” I ask him.

  “They put wet colors all over those pieces of cloth,” Pierre explains. “And then other two-legs take the colored cloths home with them.”

  I will never understand two-legs. Why would they want to take colored cloths home with them? I would rather take food home with me.

  There sure are a lot of two-legs standing around the artists’ chairs. Well, around most of the artists’ chairs, anyway. One of the artists is all by himself. He looks sad. I don’t blame him. It’s no fun to be alone.

  Wiggle, waggle, wait a minute. Maybe he doesn’t have to be alone. Maybe he can have a friend. A dog friend!

  “Do you think artists can use help putting wet colors on the cloths?” I ask Pierre.

  Pierre shakes his head. “The artists don’t like having dogs around.”

  That’s silly. Everyone loves dogs. And even if Pierre couldn’t help the artist with his colors, he could help the artist in another way. Having a dog around would make the artist smile. I bet he would have lots of two-leg friends around him if he looked happier.

  Pierre is just scared. I will show him there’s nothing to be scared of! I start to run over to the lonely artist.