A Toad Suck Christmas

Christmas dawned frosty and clear over Toad Suck, Arkansas.  Twenty-something Fahrenheit along the banks of the Arkansas River.  The Beagle Posse was snuggled with their humans in the travel trailer, and the propane heater chugged along keeping everyone toasty.  It had been a beautiful starry night, with the mournful sound of Towboat horns as they and their barge loads worked through the locks on the other side of the river—about ¾ mile away. Still, Tommy was pleading his case.

“You told me we moved to Texas so I wouldn't have to go out in the cold to pee anymore.”

“No,” I said,”I told you it wouldn’t be as cold as often.  And we aren’t in Texas right now.  So, let's go on out, it’s clear, sunny, no wind, and you’ll be finished and back on the settee before you know it.”

“Oh, I’ll know it,” he yipped.  “Last night, you knew it would be so cold that you unhooked the water hose from the camper.  I watched out the window.”

“Yes, because I didn’t want a burst hose, or damage to the RV plumbing.”

“Well, this beagle ain’t contemplating any damage to his plumbing either.”  (Since we moved to Texas, Tommy’s language has acquired more ‘ain’ts’, ‘reckons’ and ‘fixin’ tos.’) “Take me back to Texas and I’ll go out.”

“Tommy, it’s 9 hours to Texas.”

“I’ll hold it.”

“I doubt that. You used 4 rest stops on the way up here.”

“Yeah,” Tommy replied, “the trees looked thirsty. And 3 of the stops were in Texas. Hook up and let’s get going.”

Concepts of time and distance are not firm with Beagles.  Plus, since we haven’t owned this trailer for long, and this is only the second trip in it with the Posse, they are still working hard at finding all of the possible soft places to nap on the settee and bunks.  Their first order of business, obviously, having been to ascertain the onload of the kibble.

“WAIT!” Tommy suddenly yelped.  “I hear them.  They’re here.  Come on, come on, come on.”  And then Tuppence joined in the chorus.  It took me a while to figure out that this was all because they’d either heard or smelled that Toad Suck Park had squirrels.

All hesitance about exiting the trailer evaporated into the elemental urge to pursue the Order Rodentia.

The Tinkle Trip Tirade having ended, we all settled down into this year’s Christmas routine.  Wonderful days with the family at my sister’s house (6 miles from the Sucking Toads), and cozy cold evenings tucked up with just us and the Posse in the trailer under starlit skies, beside one of the nation’s mighty rivers.

This, however, was certainly not to be a routine Yule.  For in the middle of the night of the 25^th, I suddenly woke, grabbing a wall, as I sensed the trailer violently tumbling end to end. And it tumbled, and tumbled, and tumbled as my stomach began to protest into my throat.

It turned out, the trailer was not tumbling a bit, but you could not convince my inner ear of that fact.  Some malevolent soul had given me a whole Christmas Stocking full of Vertigo.  And I was not thankful for the gift.

It was just dawn, and our daughter and son in law were staying with my sister.  We called them to come help by taking charge of the Beagle Posse while Deborah got me to the ER.

A couple of things were discovered by the medicos.  Nothing immediately life threatening.  (However, part of the reason we moved so fast was that this kind of vertiginous feeling was exactly how my stroke had started in 2004, and it scared me so bad I forgot Trump was president.)

I did have vertigo, which I amply demonstrated to the ER doc by throwing up all over his scrubs and Nikes when he did that head turning, twisting maneuver they do to loosen your inner ear crystals.  But they also discovered that part of my light headedness was due to the fact that my heart rate was down to about 40 beats per minute.  The good doctor said that this was probably because I needed to reduce my dose of Beta Blocker, and they shot me up with some meds to bring my pulse back to around 70.  

Within the hour, I was free and out the ER door.  Still not 100%, but up to perhaps 67½%--they had taken good care of me and treated me both kindly and well.  (Follow up, of course with my own doctor this week.)

But I digress.  We were talking about Beagles and small travel trailers.  The trailer, by the way, is still to be named.  I’m leaning toward “The Starship Beagleprise,” but I don’t think Deborah is.

Night time in the trailer.  Heater warming away, hearts warm from Christmas and health fixes.  Deborah and I were snuggled in blankets with Tuppence already snuggled under the covers and way down at our feet.  Tommy was on the floor, rocking back and forth like a high jumper preparing for his run—it’s how Tommy psyches himself when deciding where to jump onto a bed or a couch.

Tommy is the athlete member of the Posse.  He can easily leap aboard any bed or couch, even if needing to jump over a human or Tuppence in the process.  BUT—and it is a huge but—Tuppence uses Beagle mind force to control both the trajectory and landing points of any leaps he makes to furniture where she is already resident.  We’re not sure just how she communicates it to him, or what consequences may later be extracted for him failing to choose an acceptable flight plan, but he must be, and is, careful to never overfly her prone body, or even come too close to her border protection zone.  She puts up a canine force field that could double as a wall on any border of the country.

Tommy chooses his route and leaps.  At the same time, I am nearly knocked over by aroma.  The trailer takes on the atmosphere of a Vietnam War latrine.  I swear the Formica on the countertop begins to curl.

“Tommy!” I yell. “We just walked you.  Dammit, you know the trailer is like the house, you don’t deposit those packages in here.”

Landing and curling up to snooze, Tommy says, “I didn’t deposit anything.”

“I can smell it.  Now, I’ve got to get up and pick it off the floor.  You’re in big trouble.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then what do I smell?”

“Jet Assisted Take Off,” mumbles Tommy, as he stretches.

From under the covers we hear Tuppence say, “He’s been working on that.”

Tommy says, “Bottom-centered gaseous propulsion to make my leaps longer.  Kind of like an after burner.  I read about it.”

“Well,” I growled, “my eyes are burning.  Don’t do that again. I don’t think you need the extra thrust.”

“It’s like a carrier take off,” he says, “a real thrill.”

“I’m not thrilled, Tommy.  And wait, you can’t read.”

From under the covers we hear Tuppence once more.  “Tommy, before next time……”

“Yeah,” he asks cautiously.  As explained, he recognizes her authority, not ours.

“Before next time, “ Tuppy says, “eat more peppermint.”