"Saddlebag Sadie"

by Maggie Worrix King

Dedicated to Kit, the cow dog,

and her dad, John

* * * * *

Saddlebag Sadie was

born in a barn.

She used to work as a

herding dog on a big cattle ranch

in Texas.

One day, though, Sadie found

herself living in a duplex in Seattle…

with a yard that seemed no bigger

than a postage stamp.

Sadie didn’t like the rain.

And the city cats weren’t

anything like the barn cats back home.

Sadie chased Chester and he

swatted her on the nose.

She yelped and hid under

the hydrangea bush.

When she finally came out, she tried to

round up the robins at the bird feeder.

The robins flew away in a flapping of

feathers and left a big bird dropping

on Sadie’s head.

Splat!

Things got really bad, though, when

Sadie tried to herd Hannah,

the mail lady.

Hannah always carried her

pet ferret, George, in the pouch of her

bib overalls while she delivered the mail.

When Sadie nipped Hannah’s heels

Hannah tripped and nearly dropped

the mail and George in the mud.

“Bad dog, Sadie,” said Hannah.

George scolded Sadie, too,

by clicking his teeth and flicking his tail.

Sadie crawled back under

the hydrangea bush.

A cranky cat, rowdy robins, and

a huffy Hannah made her a sad Sadie.

She was still moping the next time

Hannah came by with the mail.

It was the Fourth of July weekend

and George was wearing his

red, white, and blue bandanna.

Suddenly a firecracker boomed and a

startled George popped out of

Hannah’s overalls!

“No, George!!” yelled Hannah as a

terrified George ran toward

the busy road.

A speeding blue truck

barreled down the pavement.

Sadie tore out after George lickity-split.

She nipped his backside and herded him

safely back into the yard and away

from the truck’s big tires.

“Good dog, Sadie,” whispered a happy Hannah

as she clutched George in one arm and

hugged Sadie with the other.

Sadie’s whole hind end wiggled

as she wagged.

* * * * *

Maggie Worrix King
Pup Fiction Writer ~ Pet Tarot Reader 

Gwendolyn and the Ghost Pony

by Maggie Worrix King

Gwendolyn crunched happily on a cinnamon apple from the candy apple tree in the Moon Meadow. Her iridescent horn glowed and shimmered in the lunar light.

One of the ghost ponies stood quietly beside her -- but he hadn't tasted a single bite of the sweet fruit.

"Good evening," Gwendolyn said, because she was a friendly soul. The ghost pony nodded his head gently in reply.

Gwendolyn chomped another apple. Sometimes the ghost ponies kept to themselves. They were, after all, just passing through the Moon Meadow on their way to Horse Heaven.

The meadow was a stop-over...a resting place for them to sleep or graze before they continued their journey. Gwendolyn knew that passing from earth wasn't always an easy transition for the ghost ponies.

"I'm worried about Katie," blurted out the ghost pony -- as if he'd read Gwendolyn's thoughts.

"Is Katie your owner?" asked Gwendolyn.

"Yes, Katie and I have belonged to each other always. I was her first pony when she was six-years-old. She's sixteen now and hasn't ridden me in years but she hasn't missed a day in all that time to feed me carrots or brush my mane and tail. Katie and I were best friends. Now I'm worried about her. Neither of us was ready to say goodbye."

"I'm so sorry, " said Gwendolyn. "Sounds like you love Katie very much."

The ghost pony dropped his head until his muzzle almost touched the ground.

Gwendolyn knew his heart was very sad. "Maybe I can help," she said.

The ghost pony lifted his head slightly.

"Well, being a unicorn I am magic," said Gwendolyn. "Maybe Katie is sad because she thinks you're gone forever. Maybe she doesn't know about Horse Heaven."

"Well, to tell you the truth, I'm not really sure about Horse Heaven, either," whispered the ghost pony. "This whole thing is rather new to me."

Gwendolyn finished chewing another cinnamon apple before answering. "It's not a big deal really...You live in Horse Heaven until the One Who Loved You -- in your case, Katie -- passes from earth, too. Then you're both reunited and it's a happy time with lots of hugging and ear scratches. Oh, and I hear you get lots of carrots and apple treats, too."

"Hey -- that sounds pretty good, " said the ghost pony, and he lifted his head high. He was definitely cheering up some. "But how can you help me with Katie now?"

"I'll visit her in her dreams. I'll tell her you're missing her and worried about her -- but that you're fine. Oh, by the way," continued Gwendolyn. "What's your name?"

"Flash. My name is Flash, " answered the ghost pony. He tossed his head with excitement and his flaxen forelock glistened in the moonlight.

"Okay. Here's what I'll do: I'll visit Katie in her dreams and tell her Flash sends his love... and that you two will be together again in Horse Heaven."

"That sounds wonderful! But if you go to her in a dream she might not think it's real...she might think it's just her own mind dreaming up stuff."

"She'll believe me, "said Gwendolyn, matter-of-factly. "Because I'll leave a lock of my mane on her pillow."

"Wow," said the ghost pony. "How can I ever thank you?"

"Well, if you can reach that extra juicy clump of cinnamon apples right over there," joked Gwendolyn, and made Flash laugh. "I'm just happy to help out."

"And I shall never forget your kindness, dear unicorn."

Gwendolyn bowed her head at Flash and then went back to her apples.

This time the ghost pony joined in, too.

Hi Guys -- here's a dog story for kids I wrote a few years back...

Eating With Willie

by

Maggie Worrix King

I like going to Aunt Sylvia's and Uncle John's house except for one thing. One big, hairy thing.

Willie.

Willie is Aunt Sylvia's Old English Sheepdog. He's as furry as King Kong's armpits and most of the time he smells like my old gym socks after they've been fermenting under my bed for awhile. He's got gobs of salt and pepper colored hair hanging down where his eyes should be. No one has even seen his eyes in two and a half years -- not since he was little and Aunt Sylvia used to hold his puppy bangs back with a pink poodle barrette. Now my aunt would need a bull rider's rope to hold all that hair.

I'd like Willie a lot more if he didn't have this big problem. I know most dogs have a bad habit or two. Some jump on people with muddy paws. Some chase cats. My best friend, Tyler, has a St. Bernard named Keg who begs at the dinner table until drool starts dribbling from his mouth and someone has to put him outside. I could live with those bad habits. Willie's problem is much more serious.

Willie is a genuine food thief. He's a muffin mugger. A pretzel poacher. A peanut butter bar burglar. A cookie criminal. A french fry fleecer. A pizza pirate. A hot dog hijacker.

Today Willie ambushed me from behind and stole my chocolate Easter bunny right out of my hand. I chased him down the hall and my mom looked up from the arts and crafts magazine she was reading.

"Zack," she called after me. "Don't run in Aunt Sylvia's house and please don't feed Willie -- chocolate isn't good for dogs."

Willie didn't give a hoot whether it was good for him or not. By the time I caught him, my chocolate Easter rabbit was a brown smudge on the tip of his nose. Mad about having my candy kidnapped, I shook my finger -- which he probably couldn't even see -- in his whiskered face and scolded, "No, Willie, no!"

Ignoring me, Willie decided to scratch a hungry flea behind his left ear.

My stomach was starting to growl later when I sat down at the kitchen table with a strawberry and cream cheese muffin to watch Uncle John and my dad play poker for pennies. At Uncle John's elbow was a big frosty mug of root beer. I'd left Willie snoozing in a patch of sunshine in the living room so I figured me and my muffin were safe. Lounging back in my chair, I brought the muffin to my lips and closed my eyes to savor the delicious taste of sweet cream cheese frosting, when all of a sudden the muffin was swiped from my hand! My eyes flew open!

Willie didn't even bother chewing. He just sort of hunkered down and rocked his head back and forth until the muffin disappeared down his throat in two seconds flat. As a final flourish, his pink tongue snaked out to lick the last blob of frosting from the tip of his nose.

"Dad!" I blurted out and jumped up from my chair, but Uncle John had just shown his poker hand and they were busy arguing about it. Glaring at Willie, I watched as he sneaked around behind Uncle John, put his big old hairy paws up on the table, and plunged his nose into the root beer glass. Slurp!

Uncle John scooped the pile of pennies towards him and then reached over to take a celebration swig from his mug. Tilting it, he stopped in midair to closely examine the contents of his glass.

"Sylvia," he called out, "I think you'd better toss out that root beer -- it looks weird."

Speaking of weird...I looked over at Willie. His whiskers were drenched with creamy brown, frothy foam. Sighing, I rested my forehead on the table. Willie's shaggy head nudged my arm and then he burped, blowing his root beer breath in my face.

A little while later I made myself a peanut butter sandwich and put it in a paper lunch sack. I slipped one of Aunt Sylvia's chocolate chip cookies into the pocket of my t-shirt. Mom saw me.

"My word, Zachary," she said. "Are you eating again? Now don't spoil your dinner."

I didn't say anything but my stomach rumbled as I headed for the tree house in the back yard. I was thinking, Gee, a kid could starve to death with Willie around.

Sitting among the apple tree branches in the tree house, I took a monster bite out of my sandwich, and knew exactly why animals and people seek high ground in dangerous situations. Willie stood below me on the grass, wagging what would have been his tail but wasn't because he'd had it docked as a puppy. He looked at me, licking his chops, wanting my lunch.

"No, Willie, go away! Buzz off!" I hollered, wildly waving my arms around, because I knew I'd only won the battle and not the war. Woofing, Willie wiggled over to the tree trunk and stood up on his hind legs, his front paws scratching the tree like a redbone hound treeing a raccoon. The safety of eating in the tree house was only a temporary solution. There was no way my mom was going to let me eat up here every time we came to visit Aunt Sylvia and Uncle John. Besides, it was spring now but when the winter snow came it would be too cold to eat outside. I was going to have to try harder to think of a permanent solution.

When I finally climbed down from the tree house, Willie nearly knocked me to the ground trying to nuzzle the cookie crumbs from the pocket of my t-shirt.

Suddenly an idea went off in my head. I remembered seeing a film at school about a beagle named Barney who worked for the agricultural department in Los Angeles. Barney's job was to sniff fruits and vegetables inside passenger's luggage at the airport because the beagle's nose was that good.

Well, I figured Willie's sniffer was just as good.

Later that night I tested my plan. I sat at the kitchen table while Aunt Sylvia and my mom were busy decorating two sweatshirts with fabric glitter pens. Leaning back in my chair, and closing my eyes to fully enjoy the tasty delight of sweet cream cheese frosting, I took a huge bite out of my strawberry muffin -- while Willie pushed and sniffed and tugged and pulled and mauled and fussed with the rolled up cuff on my left pant leg. Carefully placed inside my cuff and secured with a tiny gold safety pin was a hunk of strawberry muffin.

The smell of muffin was driving Willie wild. Underneath the table he was wrestling with my pant leg and nearly pulling me off my chair, but for the first time in ages I could finally eat without being ripped off. I reached down and gave his shaggy head a little pat. I knew me and Willie were going to be good buddies from now on.

It's been awhile now and, to be honest, all of this has caused a new bad habit to develop in Willie.

Now he's a genuine clothes thief. He's a shirt shoplifter. A pants poacher. A sock skyjacker...

I heard Aunt Sylvia tell my mom that it's the strangest thing. She says Willie sniffs every pocket as if searching for something. They're all puzzled. But not me.

I know what he's looking for.