Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Left: Remained, or Departed (11/20/25)
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TITLE: The Hot Dog That Went Postal | Previous Challenge Entry
By Marilyn Meiners
11/25/25 -
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Sally lived down the street and we did everything together. We walked to school together, laughed together, cried together. After graduation in 1958, we were in each other’s weddings. Taking a bike ride together was a natural thing to do.
“Sounds good. You bring the chips and drinks. I’ll bring the hot dogs and buns. Let’s do this,” I answered.
Thus, our journey began. It took exactly twenty minutes to ride to the park. We had done this before, so we knew the route well. Once we arrived, we parked our bikes and headed for the nearest picnic table.
Sally laid out her spread of chips and drinks. I opened my Ziplock bag of four hot dogs along with the buns.
She peered inside and said, “Cold hot dogs? What are we — pioneers?”
“They’re just pre-chilled,” I said.
“Uh-huh. That’s what the health department calls ‘optimism,’” she muttered.
Who needs to cook their hot dogs? Not us. We ate them cold.
After our “delicious” meal, we spent a little time on the swings and the merry-go-round. Even thirteen-year-old girls could enjoy such childlike activities…right?
When it was time to go, we had one hot dog left. (I only ate one, preferring my hot dogs hot.)
I asked Sally, “What should we do with this hot dog that’s left?”
“She leaned back with a soft smile. ‘That tiny thing is off on its own grand journey. I’ll just wave and wish it luck.’”
She still didn’t have any useful advice, so I decided to take it with me. Why? I have no idea.
As we rode toward home, an idea struck me. Our route took us through a fancy neighborhood — big houses, perfect lawns, the kind of place where even the dogs looked judgmental.
Each house had a perfect little mailbox by the road.
“Hey, Sally,” I yelled. “Stop a minute!”
She slammed her brakes. “If this involves jail time or a newspaper headline, count me out.”
“I just want to do something.”
“That’s exactly what all criminals say.”
“Just stop. I’ll show you.”
I chose a mailbox, opened it, and carefully placed my hot dog inside. Sally’s eyes nearly popped out of her head.
“Oh good,” she whispered, “we’ve taken up mail-based cuisine.”
“What if they see you doing that?” she hissed.
“Don’t be silly. No one can see us through all this shrubbery.”
“Oh, they’ll see me when I’m on America’s Most Wanted: The Hot Dog Edition.”
I closed the mailbox and left behind one extremely confused hot dog, and off we rode.
About ten minutes later, I started laughing — hysterically — so hard I had to stop my bike.
“What’s wrong with you?” Sally demanded. “Are you having a medical emergency or a spiritual one?”
“The mailman,” I gasped. “He’s gonna’ open that box and find a hot dog staring back at him!”
She groaned. “He already hates Mondays. Now you’ve ruined Tuesdays too.”
“Then the owner is gonna’ find their bills under a hot dog!”
“I hope they send it back with a stamp and mustard,” she said.
I laughed even harder. “What if they’re gone a week? They’ll have to replace their stinky mailbox!”
Sally shook her head. “Congratulations. You’ve started a deli-based renovation trend.”
“You and your stupid ideas,” she added, but she was smiling now.
I warned her not to tell my parents. She raised her hand and said, “My lips are sealed. Also, from now on, you’re not allowed to pack the food anymore.”
Needless to say, that was the last picnic bike ride we took that summer. In fact, it was the last picnic bike ride we ever took.
Not because we fought.
Mostly because Sally didn’t trust me with a hot dog - or a mailbox.
Looking back, I’m amazed at how one silly hot dog caused so much laughter in my life and so much worry in Sally’s. At the time, I thought I was just being “clever,” but really, I was just a thirteen-year-old girl having a little too much freedom and a little too much imagination. Still, that day reminds me that some of the best memories come from the most ordinary moments… and occasionally, from the most questionable decisions. And if I’m being honest, I’d probably do it all over again — but I might at least bring mustard next time.
Story is non-fiction
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