Jared didn't see any of his family for the rest of the afternoon. One of the most trying aspects of canine life was keeping himself occupied for long stretches of time. He took a drink from his water dish when he got thirsty, spent some time inside the doghouse, rested on the ground in front of the doghouse, and paced the yard as far as the length of the lead allowed him.
No wonder Shaggy had wanted Jared's life. Jared came to the conclusion that not even school was as boring as a dog's life. At least as a student he got to talk and laugh with his friends even during the dull bits. Some relief from the boredom came when the delightful aromas from a neighborhood family's barbecue wafted on the breeze. He found he could even identify the individual food items by smell: juicy burgers, plump hotdogs, and grilled chicken breasts. He salivated at the thought of so much appetizing food, which set his stomach to growling. As long as the scents from the barbecue permeated the air, Jared found he could focus on nothing else. His plans for communicating with one of his family members went by the wayside as he dreamed of sinking his teeth into a burger or hotdog.
His father was a man of routine, and one of his daily rituals when home varied by hardly a minute. At six sharp, the back door opened and he stepped onto the lanai, a tall glass containing his gin and tonic garnished with a thin slice of lime. He took a deep breath, looked around the yard and proceeded to sip his pre-dinner cocktail.
"Smells like the Thomasons are having another Sunday afternoon barbecue," he remarked aloud, to which he got an unexpected reply when Jared produced an enthusiastic "arf" of agreement.
Jared's old man looked surprised to discover that he shared the backyard with the family dog. "I'll bet those smells are really working up your appetite, Shaggy," he remarked and took another drink of gin and tonic.
Jared agreed, but he tried to push thoughts of food from his mind. If anyone could recognize him in his canine guise, surely it would be his father. Jared figured a man and his first-born son must share some sort of exceptional bond. Maybe he was being overly optimistic, but he had to try.
Jared decided to go the stick in the dirt route again. One scribbled message to his father and he could get the help he needed. He could expose the impostor and regain his human form. He had no sooner found his stick and taken it into his mouth when his father noticed and did something unanticipated.
Sitting his glass on the patio table on the lanai, his dad stepped into the grass, reached down and grabbed the stick right out of one startled sheepdog's mouth. He waved the stick in the air above the dog. "You want to play fetch, boy?"
"No!" Jared wanted to scream, "Dad, I need that!"
His dad waved the stick a few more times and then tossed it halfway across the yard. Jared has watched in frustration until the second the stick left his father's hand. The sight of the stick sailing through the air triggered something powerful in Jared's doggie instincts and he bounded across the yard and retrieved the stick.
"Bring it back, boy," his father said, warming to the activity. "Bring it back."
Jared tried to resist his father's coaxing. He needed to write his message in the dirt. He tried to block out the words from his dad and dashed to the dirt in front of the doghouse. He managed to get the tip of the stick into contact with the ground when his dad showed up.
"What's got into you, boy?" His dad asked, grabbing the stick from the dog's mouth again. "When I throw it, you bring it back. Ready?"
Jared's woofs were completely misinterpreted. "Good," his father said, waving the stick. He kept it up until he saw Shaggy lock eyes on the stick and follow it. When the big, shaggy sheepdog was a bundle of pent-up energy, Jared's father let the stick fly.
He laughed as the ungainly sheepdog did his best imitation of a swift greyhound as he bounded across the yard. This time, the anticipation and excitement knew no bounds when Jared closed his jaws on the stick. He rushed back to his father, eager for him to take the stick and repeat the process.
"Honey," Jared's mother called from the back door. "It's time for dinner."
"Be right there," his father answered.
Jared panted wildly, his eyes eagerly awaiting the next toss. "Go get it, boy," his father said, putting some extra muscle into the throw.
Jared raced across the yard. What happened next was so unfair that he felt like howling. He got within about a foot of where the stick had landed in the grass and felt his neck jerked back. He strained and tried to approach again. He couldn't get any closer to the mesmerizing stick, which his father had tossed absent-mindedly a short distance too far.
He turned, glanced back, in the hope of letting him know what had happened, only to catch sight of the back door slamming shut.
Arf! Arf! "Come back. Get stick!"
Dejected, he trotted to the front of the doghouse and spread out on his belly in front of the wooden structure. The playing fetch had tired him out. His imagination teased by the lingering smells from the Thomason barbecue, Jared fell asleep.