The call of the mild
- Oscar the Pooch
- 3 days ago
- 7 min read
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. The best way to see a thing is to smell it, and you can’t smell it unless you’re practically on top of it.”
“I don’t mean seeing with your eyes. Until you know how it’s going to end, you’re constantly collecting clues about what kind of story you’re in. It’s hard to appreciate an experience while you’re having it because you’re too absorbed and distracted by what’s going on around you.”
“The part where you don’t know how it’s going to end is the funnest part of any story,” I agreed.
“Yeah, but even if it turns into a nursery rhyme with meaningless threats and a happy ending, you’re still picking up hints of danger and suspense, just in case. It’s only when you get home, put all the pieces together, and throw out the ones that don’t fit that you find out what kind of story it was, and whether the anxiety was foreshadowing or just a red herring.”
“Wait, you mean you relive our adventures after they’re over?”
“Yeah. Memories are why we come out here. It certainly isn’t for comfort.”
“Maybe the boogeyvirus will turn out to be an epic story that we love to tell when it’s all over,” I suggested. “When you share my pictures from this trip, no one will see any of the wind or boogeyvirus swirling around, and from far away it will all look like a grand adventure.”
“Maybe,” she said like a goodbye. She did an about-face without announcing it and walked stiffly away like she does when she’s determined to be alone, no matter who else is around.
Her head never lifted to check that I was following, so I called, “I’m coming!” and knocked her out of the way as I rumbled like a gutterball back toward the Wagon.
Now that the wind was to my nose, I caught the scent of a flying monkey. I followed it, leaving Mom alone inside her head. I ran until Mom screamed for me not to leave her here alone. As soon as she scuttled back into sight, I took off after the monkey again. She’d be too proud to be angry once I caught him red-pawed trying to scoop up a horse.
The valley ended before I caught that rascal. The clouds fled back to the hunking mountaintop the moment I popped out of the canyon, and the sun smiled like I’d stepped into a scene from a different movie. I rolled in the scratchy grass, enjoying the feeling of sun on my belly until Mom popped out behind me and unlocked The Wagon.
Slower than a sundial, the Wagon made a turn with a thousand spurs to point itself back toward Winnemucca¹¹. It groaned and squealed, lurched and heaved over the bushes and rocks until we were back at the gate. Once Mom had tied the gate locked behind us, she pulled out the Witch for a meeting.
“Looking for more trails in the Outback of Nevada?” I asked.
“I just want to check one thing…” She ordered the Wagon onto the highway in the wrong direction from Winnemucca¹², or California beyond.
¹² Twelve Winnemuccas!
As we rolled through the Outback, I watched through the front window for the one thing that Mom needed to check, but all I found was a whole lotta nothing. Finally, I spotted another sign marking another car trail. Except this time with no gate.
“What does it say?” I asked.
“Horse Canyon,” Mom said in a flat voice like she was too tired to say more.
“Oh good! The horse came home after all. I knew we’d find a happy ending.”
The Wagon rolled over the cattle rattle and onto the glassy-smooth dirt road. It turned in a wide circle around the roomy, hard-packed dirt of the car kennel.
Mom looked bewildered. “We just turned too soon. If I’d just been more patient…” she said like a dog trying to reason out something beyond his understanding. She looked up for answers, but the hills just shrugged against the sky.
