Theft of the Yellow Fellow Chapter One

It was on the stroke of ten o’clock on a hot, dark August night when I discovered my yellow squeaky Banana Dog was missing. Searching every room using my magnificent nose that can find the slightest trace of food beneath the dining room table no matter how many times Whiny vacuums, it became perfectly clear that someone had removed BD from the premises. My glorious heart that swells to basketball size when my Whiny two-legs praises me for being such a good dog was broken into tiny little pieces. When Fred and I were tucked safely inside our padded condo, we spent the night crying softly together over the loss of our friend. If only, oh if only, I could bite on Banana Dog just one more time.

It took Whiny a couple of days to figure out why I was so blue. During those days my whimpering over the slightest change in her tone of voice caused her to speak softly and pat my head often. She was gathering my toys that I had spent all my waking hours scattering throughout the house when she finally noticed what Fred and I had already discovered. BD was gone!

“Oh, no!” she whined. “So that’s what you have been trying to tell me with your solemn face and constant nosing through all the corners of the house, Banana Dog is missing! Don’t worry, puppy, he’ll be back in your mouth before time for you to bark at the trash truck at daybreak tomorrow!”

But she was wrong. Even though yellow was one of the two colors that we dogs can see, I could neither see him nor smell him. Whiny did no better. Together we looked, and we looked, and we looked some more. It was true, BD was gone!

After the trash truck had left all the cans empty at the end of the driveways in our cul-de-sac and Banana Dog still had not been found, Whiny told me to fetch Fred and we all moved to the writing porch. As my favorite companion and I sat beneath her feet, Whiny did what Whiny does best; she picked up pen (I’d just yesterday destroyed her last #2 pencil when I found it tempting me by hanging halfway off of her desk) and paper and began to write. Explaining that we needed to open a missing case file on Banana Dog and issue a stolen alert to the neighborhood. Our goal would be to identify the thief before more doggie toys came up missing.

We started with reviewing the last time Whiny and I had seen Banana Dog. It was on Friday when Camp of Two Wishes was underway. She and I had been in an argument over BD as Whiny had declared him too filthy to attend camp and she was attempting to put him in the dishwasher for a good hot bath. I was barking my defense and removing BD every time she poked him inside. Besides liking BD dirty, what I really wanted Whiny to understand was that if I couldn’t get inside the dishwasher and lick all the dirty dishes then the Banana Dog was not going to get in there either. Fair is fair!

Besides the injustice of it all, I liked Banana Dog just like he was; good and smelly. The layers of dirt covering his body didn’t bother me, as it had taken a very long time to coat him so thoroughly in grime. I had spent hours burying him in the flower bed and digging him up, and many days carrying him lovingly in my mouth to the greatest of all my hiding places; under the back deck, and then fetching him out again. I was proud that hardly a fraction of an inch of his yellowness was visible.

Plus, one night when Banana Dog had been left outside, a big scary raccoon had rubbed her scent on him when she dragged BD off the birdseed table with her sharp teeth and then patted him down with her oh so perfect little hands to see if he might be harboring anything worth stealing. (Oh how I’d love to have those hands!) The raccoon's scent alone was worth a fortune so why would Whiny want to wash it off?

At the end of our tussle, I lost. Banana Dog was shut up inside the most wonderful snack bar in the whole-wide-house and even though I sat right beside the dishwasher and howled my grief over the loss of so many wonderful scents and months of dirt and grime, Whiny paid me no mind. Even scooting me over a time or two with her foot so she could put the clean bowls away in the bottom cabinet.

When BD came out of the dishwasher all shiny clean, with his yellow skin glowing like the first time I ever saw him, I was not impressed. He’d lost his entire character, and as far as I was concerned, all his charm. Now he might as well be called BBD for Boring Banana Dog.

Pouncing on him with my front feet and poking him repeatedly with my nose, I had him squealing as loud as a baby pig separated from its momma, but that’s where the comparison stopped because baby pigs are literally covered in wonderful smells and Boring Banana Dog was odorless. Just saying that bland word gives me shivers, as using that adjective in front of the word dog is like being given a chew stick without a bacon wrapping. How much more uninviting could a dog be?

The Camp of Two Wishes attendees were all present in the kitchen when Banana Dog made his reappearance. They could be described as the opposite of boring, as when Whiny announced lunch would be ready in a few short minutes she had interrupted a dress rehearsal for this year’s camp skit. The six two-legs were each dressed as one of the suspects in the board game called Clue and looked quite different from the three boys and three girls that had been involved in macaroni art only a few hours earlier. Of course they were still easily recognizable to me because of their very own specific scents.

Hunger had the six of them quickly assembling and hanging around the dining room table awaiting the big round cheesy food that was making my mouth water with its wonderful scents leaking from around the door of the hot box. I barked furiously at their altered appearances as it is always my job to point out anything out of the ordinary.

But once Banana Man was dried off and placed back in my possession, I ignored the children entirely and began to drive them all crazy with the constant noise I was producing with Banana Dog. In just a few short minutes everyone begged me to stop the racket, but I continued to squeeze that dog until there wasn’t enough air left inside of him to make any more piggy-like squeals.

The last thing I remember that involved Banana Dog was dropping him on the kitchen floor, abandoning him because lunch had been declared ready and the food was being removed from the hot box. It was after I so thoughtlessly cast him away that someone stole my friend.

I vow I shall hunt until I find Banana Dog!