Tag Archives: dog

Bella, Part One

It’s the middle of the night. You’re lying in your tent, tossing and turning, searching for that perfect position.

You’re about 50 yards from the trail, yet the sudden scream sounds like it’s coming from inside your tent.

This isn’t a dream. Not a drill.

You know someone’s in terrible danger—but you have no idea what to do.

If you unzip the tent, he/she/it/they might spot you.

Do nothing, and the person…

What would you do?

I’ll tell you what I did.

First, I shut Abby up—her barking was ruining the vibe.

Then the beast in me tore the tent wide open, and I hollered,

“Pull your shit together or I’m gonna beat all your asses.”

Silence.

Not a stir.

I then grabbed this fucker.

Thank god for it—if I’d had any weaker flashlight, I would’ve seen nothing but branches.

Turned it on, and just beyond the light: a woman in her early 30s, dressed in what looked like a large doily.

“You’re not gonna hurt me?” she asked, trembling.

I didn’t dare step forward. She almost looked feral.

“If you attack me, I will.”

“I won’t attack you.” She grinned. “My name’s Bella.”

Bella said she has regular nightmares and was hoping a night out in nature would cure her.

“Could take a while,” I told her.

I hadn’t shared my name—must’ve forgotten.

Just as I thought the conversation was winding down, she asked if she could stay in my tent for the rest of the night.

“With me?”

“If you don’t mind.”

I nodded.

She hobbled over. In we went.

We didn’t sleep, but there was no hanky panky either.

More on Bella—and our journey—next week.

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Whitley’s Great Offense

Whitley did everything in her powers to avoid being offensive.  Regardless of the path she lead, Whitley left people pouting, blushing or rushing into a state of utter depression.   It took only one man to inform her that she held an unconscious desire to destroy others.  He went by the name Charles Boswell.  Charles was a retired architect living on the upper west side of Manhattan.   When he came in contact with Whitley, it was a sweltering day in Central Park.  Nearly every male was shirtless.  Charles, however, felt his form inferior, thus kept all fabric affixed to his body.

A golden retriever searched for a tennis ball nearby Whitley.  This had been her first time sunbathing in seven months.   Disturbed by the canine’s prodding, Whitley reached for her t-shirt, covering her cleavage.

“Whatever you’re looking for, dog, it ain’t here,” Whitley whined.

The golden retriever leaned in, licking Whitley’s face.

“Yuck,” pushing the dog off her.

Charles rushed in apologizing, “Spark!  That’s not my dog.  It’s my friend’s.   He’s away…”

“I don’t care,” Whitley barked.   “Take that beast away from me.”

“Spark,” Charles giggled.   “He’s a sweetie!”

All Whitley wished for was her space back with the sun.   “Take whoever’s dog this might be and leave me.   You’re wasting my time.”    She then fell back onto her giant beach towel, shaking with grief.

Stroking Whitley’s hair, Charles questioned her mental health.   “I know a great therapist.   She charges little and works her ass off.”

“I don’t need one.”

“You’re delusional and mean.”  Charles then dropped his business card beside Whitley.   “Call me if you’d like the therapist’s contact information.”

Whitley watched the man disappear into the crowd of sunbathers.   She stuffed his card into her purse, knowing full well that a therapist would do her wonders.