When we last left our story (from my 8-year-old self via yesterday’s blog post), the gang had returned from an errant time travel trip to the exact moment the blueberry dog was due to wake up from a wayward taser shot.

Chucky was wrong about Good Humar Man’s house smelling like a dead skunk. The stench was from the blueberry dog, who had been sitting unconscious for six months and emitting a smell that can only come from a magical dog named after a fruit.

“You idiot, it’s just the dog” Danny said. “Help me clean him up, and would someone open a window!”

Danny and Chucky picked up the groggy dog and brought him into the shower to rinse him off. Since he is a magical dog, he actually enjoys being bathed and sweet blueberry scents began to waft from his coat.

Troy took charge of airing out the house as the rest of the group set about to planning their retaliation for the dog’s kidnapping.

“Why don’t we just let it go and get some Taco Bell,” Chris said. “All of this time traveling and bad-guy chasing has my stomach screaming for food.”

“You’re always hungry,” said Troy.

“So you should be used to it by now.”

“Annoyed, yes, but I’ll never get used to your constant belly-aching. Pun intended.”

“Whatever.”

Danny and Chucky came back into the room with the now-sweet-smelling dog. The group decided they should try to return to the lair and confront Blueberry Bebop and his henchmen, Dr. Heat and Mr. Chewy.

With no better ideas than simply blowing up the hideout, Chucky did something so simple that everyone was shocked it worked. He asked the dog what to do. After all, what good is a magical dog if he can’t talk?

The magical blueberry dog, who curiously did not have a cool name like Elmer or Fabio, launched into a speech defining such clear and precise strategy that you would have thought he was trained at West Point. Actually, he was trained at West Point, but it was the West Point Kennel.

He explained that the henchmen had simple weaknesses that would render them completely inert–Mr. Heat was susceptible to ice cream, while Mr. Chewy was easily distracted and frightened by penguins.

The team was so pumped up by the dog’s speech that they immediately ran from the building to launch their attack on Bebop’s hideout. Fortunately for them, there are not many inhabitable places in Antartica, so the hideout was conveniently located across the street.

Good Humar Man went straight for Mr. Heat, defeating him with a barrage of ice cream sandwiches, fudgesicles, chocolate eclairs and sno-cones. In fact, he was so satisfied by the cool treats that he officially changed his name to Mr. Lukewarm.

Mr. Chewy was a slightly more difficult challenge, but the group was in luck. It just so happens that Chucky was an experienced penguin whisperer, and was able to get a dozen of the tuxedo birds to follow him to the lair. At the mere sight of the waddling bunch, Mr. Chewy began screaming and shaking uncontrollably as he pleaded with Chucky to make them stop. Chucky is an extreme guy, as noted by his use of bazookas and tasers earlier in the story, so he allowed the penguins to knock Mr. Chewy down and perform a choreographed celebratory dance just to freak him out.

Mr. Chewy was never the same, and would spend the rest of his life wandering Antartica screaming the words of Nelly Furtado’s “I’m Like a Bird.”

With the henchmen taken care of, the group focused on Blueberry Bebop. A quick search led them to a large room on the second floor of the lair. They were surprised to find the door unlocked and Bebop inside taking a nap. Apparently he had not heard the encounters with his henchmen.

“This looks like it is going to be easy,” Chris said. “Should I go ahead to Taco Bell and get us a table?”

“Yeah, we got this,” Good Humar Man said. “Just make sure you don’t get one too close to the soda machine. I hate when people have to stand next to our table while I am eating.”

“No problem, chief.”

Chucky, Troy and Danny sprang into the room and pinned Bebop to the bed. Good Humar Man shut the door and yelled to wake up his adversary.

“Get up you jerk!”

Bebop’s eyes popped open, and he saw that his captors had made it impossible for him to escape. He knew why they were there and sought to explain himself.

“It’s all just a big mix-up you see,” he said. “I have a blueberry dog too and he ran away from home. I was looking for him out in the street and I thought I saw him in your yard.”

“So you lost your dog and thought you would just take mine,” Good Humar Man said.

“No, no! He looks exactly like my blueberry dog–they all do!”

“A likely story. I think you just wanted to have a magical one. You should have just paid the extra $20 at the pet store, you cheap jerk!”

“I didn’t have the money back then, and besides, I don’t even need the magical version. I was happy with my blueberry dog, he just ran away. That’s all.”

“You know, I am feeling very generous today. I am going to believe you. I just have one stipulation–you have to mow my lawn for a year.”

“Your lawn? We live in Antartica.”

“Oh, right. How about you just come to Taco Bell with us. You’re buying.”

“Deal!”

The whole crew went off to Taco Bell and shared a peaceful meal at a table that was far from the soda machine. While they were eating, Bebop’s blueberry dog returned home after being gone for six months. Since the door was locked, he curled up on the front porch and went to sleep, hoping his owner would return soon and let him in from the cold.

The End.

Some of the things I write are really forgettable. “The Case of the Missing Magical Blueberry Dog” is not.

I wrote this amazing piece of literature as a third grader, apparently with the help of a kid named Troy. He lived a few houses away from me during elementary school, and was definitely one of the more unique kids at Floris Elementary.

It is a wonder our teacher that year survived given the cast of characters in our class. But I guess it was this kind of incredible storytelling bursting from her students’ brains that kept her coming back day after day just to see what we would come up with next.

One note before I get to the story–the Danny Schwartnager character was supposed to be named after Arnold Schwarzenegger, but clearly spelling complicated last names was not our forte. I will leave in the rest of the misspellings, so bear with our third-grade skillz:

It took place in Antartica. Suddenly Blueberry Bebop drank rubbing alcohol and dognapped the magical blueberry dog. When the Good Humar man found out that his dog got dognapped he told Troy, Chris, Chucky and Danny Schwartznager. He was going to find his dog.

When the Good Humar man got to the hideout he said, “allright Dr. Heat, give me back my dog!!!!!” He walked up the hallway…. the steps came closer, who would open the purple steel door?

Chucky opened the door. He took his lazerride bazooka and blew up the door. He took his tazer and tried to shoot Mr. Chewy but missed and shot the magical blueberry dog. It knocked him out for a half a year. Troy said, “Without the magical blueberry dog we will all be doomed.”

To be continued…

(I found a page titled “The Case of the Missing Magical Blueberry Dog Part II” and can only assume it will continue this very clear plotline):

Good thing Troy had an time traveling divise, so he can type in a 1/2 a year. But he acciduntally typed in 123,456,789,001 and a 1/2 yearr in the future. When they were there Troy realized that he typed in the wrong year.

There was alot of panic Troy was worried. Chucky screamed, “How do we get back?” Troy replied, “I don’t know but there’s got to be a way. Let’s try going back in time 123,456,789,001 years in the past.”

When they got there Chris said “Home sweet home.”

“Sweet? It smells like a dead skunk in coffee,” said Chucky.

The End.

Tomorrow on the blog, I go “back in time” to help third-grade Chris finish this story in a somewhat coherent way (at least with better spelling). Stay tuned.

I know you’re a fan of the archives here, but those only go back to 2005. As a special treat (read: I’m lazy today and don’t want to tackle my original blog subject), here’s some original material from February 2, 2001. Written for a creative writing class, I have resisted the urge to make any corrections. Enjoy.

The murky pond water reflects in the noon-time sun. The water splashes and separates as an old, carved wooden canoe cuts through it. An old grizzled man, his face dripping with sweat, guides the canoe to the bank of the pond. He lands the canoe gently on the muddy grass on the side of the pond. Cautiously he emerges from his craft, his long gray mangled hair dripping from the journey. The man, Earl, grabbed the canoe and pulled it from the pond. This was no easy task as the canoe was made of solid wood. Once he had the canoe on shore, Earl took a moment to rest and contemplate what was to come for the rest of the day. Not remembering what he had to do, Earl was forced to return to his camp. He was sure to bring along the canoe, for fear someone might notice it, or even steal it. He arrived after a short walk at a small clearing in the woods. This was his home. Surrounded by trees, small bushes, and undergrowth, and on top of the bare brown dirt. This is where he slept, on the ground, with the grit of the fine dirt imbedded in his hair. He was alone except for his canoe and a box of his belongings. The box was the most important thing he had. The large black trunk with brass latched and handles, is all that remains from his past. It contains all of his possessions, everything that he cares about. Earl unhooked the brass latches and retrieved his black organizer, the only thing that tied him back to the real world. It had been three years since he had left Texas for the back woods of Louisiana.

He was a prominent lawyer. He had a wife, a son, and a large house in the suburbs with a large yard and a new car. Every facet of his life was going well, and Earl was content. That is until Thursday December 21, a day that Earl will never forget. Like any other day, Earl woke up, got dressed, and headed to work. The trip was only twenty minutes, and Earl had done it a thousand times. He drove his red 1995 Ford Escort down the highway, going just over the speed limit as he usually did. Traffic was light, and it was a beautiful morning, so Earl decided to shave a few minutes off his commute and drive a little faster. He pushed down on the gas pedal until the car was flying down the road at ninety miles per hour. After several miles Earl checked his watch, he was making amazing time. He continued at his blistering speed, unwilling to slow down and waste the good time he was making. Suddenly in his mirror, Earl spotted a policemen closing fast, with lights and siren blazing. A pulse of fear ran through Earl, and sweat began to build on his forehead. The policemen drove right up behind Earl and directed him to the side of the road. Earl knew he would get a ticket with a large fine if he stopped. He would also be late for work for the third time this week, and maybe lose his job. So he made the decision not to stop. He pushed the car even faster and began to weave in and out of traffic. After several miles and many near collisions, Earl exited the highway. He sped down the off-ramp and ignored the red light at the base. As he passed under the light he smashed into a purple Dodge Caravan. The van, carrying a mother and two children, was split in two and thrown off the road. Miraculously no one was killed. Earl’s car was demolished, but he managed to escape injury, except for a few minor cuts and bruises. The mother in the van suffered two broken ribs, and broken jaw, and a mild concussion. The two children, both boys age seven and ten, suffered a broken arm and leg each. The policemen immediately radioed for help and proceeded to arrest Earl. An ambulance arrived a few minutes later to transport the family to the hospital. Earl was taken to the police station and was put into a cell. He called his house and spoke to his wife, Jeanne. She was irate and could not understand what would cause Earl to do what he did. He hung up the phone and sat in the corner of the cell with his head in his hands. What had he done, he thought to himself. What was he going to do?

The day came for his trial. Earl stood before the judge in and orange prison jumpsuit and handcuffs to hear the charges against him. He was charged with reckless driving, failure to stop, failure to obey and traffic signal, reckless endangerment, and with causing the accident. He was convicted on all of the counts after a plea of no contest. He was sentenced by the judge to eleven years in prison and $2,500 in fines. He was also ordered to pay the family he hit $10,000 for medical bills and suffering. His life was over. He couldn’t imagine what the next eleven years would be like away from his family, his house, and his job. He was taken away by an officer to his home for the next eleven years, the Texas State Penitentiary.

After just two days in prison, Earl knew he wouldn’t last. He would go crazy if he had to stay. So he put his brain to work on a way to get out. Carefully he studied his surroundings. The drain in the middle of the cement floor, the metal air vent up above, and the small cracks in the gray walls. After a week, he had devised the perfect plan. After dinner, Earl was sent to his cell. He retired to his bed and waited for the right time. He heard the guard walk down the hall, and the click of the door as he left. That was his cue. He sprang from bed and prepared is escape. He slid the bed out from the wall and tilted it on end. He managed to climb up the bed and reach the air vent above. He popped off the metal grate and climbed up inside. After crawling a short way he found himself on the roof of the building. He walked cautiously across the roof to a ladder. He climbed down and moved slowly to the fence guarding the outside of the prison. He found the section in the fence that he had noticed, which had a small gap at the bottom. He squeezed underneath the chain links and ran to freedom. It wasn’t until the next morning that they discovered he was gone, or that Earl stopped running. By then he was far away in the woods of Louisiana. That is where he now resides by himself, waiting for the day they will come and bring him back to prison. For now he sits with the box of belongings he gathered in a frantic and brief return to this house. Nobody saw him, but his family knows he was there. A note let them know where he is, and that they will probably never see him again.