One Of Those Weeks...

It’s Thursday morning. I’m sitting in the truck mechanic's waiting room — hopefully, the last waiting room for the week.

It’s been one of those weeks. Those weeks. The type of week the storyteller in me loves, but the human dreads. One minute, everything’s fine. The next minute, nothing is fine. The lead in a story I didn't want to write. A puppet in your own puppet show, with no control of the strings.

I’ve avoided baiting my “idea hooks” with the macabre for fear of what I might catch. Maybe it's because I still look under my bed before I crawl under the sheets at night. Or maybe it's because I figure a nonfictional week of dealings with rattlesnakes, dull brush-cutting blades, and emergency rooms is horrific enough; adding a chainsaw-wielding circus clown to the mix just doesn’t seem all that necessary.

But if you promise not to judge, I’ll admit, I did have moments where I thought I could really jazz this up and make it really heart-wrenching, but unfortunately, and to know benefit to you, the reader, I do have some restraint, and in this case, even morals. For now, at least. So don’t worry. I left the boogeyman in the closest this week, but consider this your warning: I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to keep him there.

Without further ado, I’d like to tell you a story…

I licked the finishings from the plates in the dishwasher while he and Mud were upstairs changing bed sheets. If my patterns are correct, and they always are, that would’ve meant it was a Sunday evening, meaning this story took place on Monday.

“Dang, that’s good,” he said, just after he took his first sip of coffee.

He opened the door, I shoved Mud to the side, and headed straight for my favorite excrement spot. If I get to it in time, I can enjoy a peaceful moment to myself before Mud finds me and starts mucking around with that nose of his.

We ran back in, and Dad already had breakfast working. Bacon, eggs, lots of caffeine—all the fixings of a future heart attack. He whiffed it down but saved us a few crispy burnt ends. Then he showered, ran us for a mile or so, and was at his desk by nine. Yea, I was right—it was a Monday.

He’s been working on something involving staring at a screen and clicking some buttons on some kind of toy with his fingers. Between us, I don’t get it. It’s like some weird self-torture routine. He’ll have these occasional outbursts of manic emotions. Saying things like “That doesn’t make any sense,” or “What the ** am I talking about!” and he’ll take his hands from the clicky button thing and grab his hair, almost like he’s trying to pull it out. Mud, and I just deal with it. Everybody’s got their quirks. It’s usually over by lunchtime anyway, and today was no different.

“Load up, boys,” he told us. He grabbed those annoying vibrating collars from the side table, and we hopped in the truck. Being so late in the day, I assumed we were headed to grab a Gatorade and a Moon-pie from the EnMart, but I was wrong. He wanted us to help him fix a brush cutter on the backside of the property.

“Stay around here, guys!” he told us as we jumped out of the truck. Mud headed left to the hardwoods, and I headed for the swamp. Something about exploring the banks of a beaver swamp gives me the fizz.

Of course, as soon as I started patrolling the shoreline, I heard him holler, “Dirt! What’d I say!?” I could see him fine. He couldn’t have been more than fifty yards or a three to four-second sprint. But he likes to make sure we know where he is in case of an evac.

So, I made my way to him, fast enough so he knew I was aware, but slow enough to convey my annoyance of his overbearing parenting.

I noticed Mud wasn’t following behind me. He seemed to be sniffing around for something not far from the truck.

After ten minutes or so, Dad finished whatever needed doing and told us to load up so we could go into town and get some parts. When I got to him though, I saw Mud in a dead stare with the ground. And beings’ he ain’t all that smart, I knew it was likely just a pinecone. I might also enjoy reminding him of commands he doesn’t adhere to on occasion.

“Mud, your ears not working?” I told him with a light head butt to his rib cage to get him moving, but he didn’t budge.

“Dirt, I’m telling you, there is something here.” Mud said.

“Boys! Let’s go. It’ll be dark soon!” Dad yelled as he started to walk towards us.

“Mud, how many times do I have to tell you, if something is around here, I’ll know.”

“Whatever, Dirt.”

“It’s not ‘whatever,’ Mud. Look, there’s an Armadillo hole right there,” I motioned with my head. That’s all your smelling.”

“I see the armadillo hole, Dirt. And I didn’t say it was something I smelled.”

“What do you mean not something you smelled?”

“It was something I saw.”

“Something you saw. Please. Don’t make me laugh. I don’t know what you think you saw, but I can tell you what you’re about to see – my teeth nip the back of your legs if you don’t get to the truck. It’s time to go.”

“I’m going to back up. Really slowly.”

“Yea? I’ll make sure to slowly sink my teeth in that leg, too.” I told him.

He started to ease back. One step at a time. I’ll admit, he was doing some good acting, but I couldn’t wait for him to turn his little tan butt around so I could get my jowls around those hams.

As soon as he turned, I went in for a nip. But just when I felt the hair from his leg on my tongue, a slithering line of leaves caught my eye and caused me to abort the nip and stand as still as a statue.

Dadghum. He wasn’t lying. Something is here.

“Dirt. Come ‘on. What are you doing?” Dad asked.

I had no choice but to make a leap and head back to the truck. “3… 2… leap.” 

When I jumped a row of leaves glided across the forest floor again. And from the same spot as last time. This was my chance, I thought. I’d seen this before. It’s a mole. Has to be a mole. Mud was right. He did see something move. I’ll let him be right. Because when I show him I caught the mole he couldn’t snag, I’ll have bragging rights for a month.

I quickly shifted my body to face the last spot I saw the shuffling leaves. I stretched my neck out. Nose to the ground, but careful not to disrupt any dried leaves. Field moles usually smell, but this one didn’t. So, I inched closer.

When my right nostril grazed the first dried oak leaf, I froze in a spine-chilling terror. Two emerald, green-piercing eyes void of any emotion were staring into my soul. I stood numb while I watched in slow motion a slithering serpent extend his body. His mouth distended from his upper and lower jowls, revealing a pink, toothless hole of biological abyss. Twin dagger-like fangs unsheathed themselves in preparation for delivering the devil’s work. I felt a hot, slippery needle enter through my right nostril. The glossy pink mouth wrapped my muzzle as the fangs injected a warm, lifeless drop of deadly venom directly into my bloodstream.

It was over in less than a second. I jumped back, tail between my legs and ran directly to my dad.

“What’s wrong, Dirt?” he said as he brushed off my coat. I assume looking for fire ants or pine needles. He looked at me and patted my face. “You’re alright, dude. Hop in the truck. Let’s get out of here.” I jumped in the truck and sat shotgun.

Dad was trying to turn the truck around while cussing at all the saplings that were making a three-point turn almost impossible.

Two minutes of venom in my blood. I started feeling a tad woozy. Dad still had no idea what happened.

We finally backed out of the logging road enough to get the truck facing the right direction when suddenly we slammed into something. It felt like we smashed against a wall, but nothing was in front of us.

Dad hopped out of the truck to see what we hit.

“Son of a bitch! Hit a pine stump. Must’ve broke something.” He said.

I could feel the grim reaper at the door. This was it. This was my time. Mud was right. Dad can’t drive. And the story of Dirt ends with a rattlesnake bite. Nice knowing ya!

“Only one way to find out. Guess we’re gonna have to drive it like we stole it, boys.” Dad says, as he stands back up from looking under the truck for more broken parts. He’s holding a piece of metal in his hand. “This must be the culprit,” he says looking down at the black metal chunk. “Looks like it’s gonna be an expensive trip to…” He tilts his head to look at Mud and I, when panic covers his face. “Ohh shit! Dirt!”

In seven minutes, my muzzle was so swollen, the silhouette against the backdrop of the window, looked like I snorted a pack of golf balls.

Dad hopped in the truck and leaned over. “Come here, buddy. Let me look at you. You’re alright. Let me look.” He kept telling me.

He noticed my nostril had a small bit of blood dripping like I’d been pricked for a blood test.

“You get hit by a hornet?” He asked, still trying to figure out the cause. A hornet? I wish. I just saw the damn devil!

He got back out of the truck, walked over to the place he last saw me—the “injection spot,” let’s call it—and scratched his head with a confused look.

It has been ten minutes since the venom was injected. He jumps back in the driver's seat with a somewhat calm demeanor.

“Well, I didn’t see anything. Let’s get to the paved road and make a decision.” He said.

A decision? What decision? Does he see my muzzle? I’m done. Finished. An afterthought. A once was. The only decision to make at this point is a where to bury Dirt decision.

He put the truck in drive. “Good lord almighty, let me deal with one thing at a time.” He proclaimed, as he eased the gas pedal. “Phew.” He lets out a long sigh of relief. As soon as we hit the paved road, I felt a wave of nausea come over me. I instantly had to vomit. I tried to get out anything I could, but nothing.

Dad was doing a little research on his phone trying to decide which way to turn. If we turned right, I might live. If we turned left, I was a goner. As soon as the second dry heave came over me, the decision was made. We turned right and started the one-hour trek to the emergency vet.

To be continued…