Where was that ravine? I couldn’t smell a thing, my extensive and sensitive sinus passages having been filled with the officer’s Chanel Number 5 perfume. What’s a police officer—or was she a park ranger—doing wearing expensive perfume in the middle of the woods? I stopped to wipe my face in the snow. A dog of perfectly tuned reflexes, Beast stopped, too.
Unfortunately, humans are not so quick on the uptake. They all tripped over Beast and piled on top of each other. Heads to the side in the way that makes humans go “Awwwww,” Beast and I watched the people make snow angels, looking more like snow spiders, as they waved their arms and legs around before struggling back to their feet. I noticed the man-officer helped the woman-officer up, which act explained the perfume. Meanwhile, a snoutful of snow refreshed my snozzle and I lifted my head to sniff the air, ignoring the way the people were muttering the kind of language my human used when stuck in traffic.
Got it! Beast and I turned to the right and trotted off with the people stumbling after us. I was getting tired. Running through snow was harder even than digging holes in the back yard. Speaking of digging under, I remembered a Discovery channel show about the way wombats in Australia get through snow. I decided to try it. I launched myself forward in a mighty leap, landed on all fours, and leaped up again-- leap, whomp, leap, whomp, hence the name wombat. Once I got a rhythm going, it wasn’t too bad.
Until one of those leaps launched me straight out to empty space.
Meanwhile at the bottom of the ravine--
"Where am I?" said the man.
Beast's mom rolled her marvelous green eyes. Couldn't the guy come up with something better than a
cliché? "You're in the snow," she whispered back. "Help is on the way, if that big monster doesn't get us first. I can't believe I thought the countryside would be a good place to write my novel. Cozy cabin away from the distractions of civilization. Ha! Try almost no cell phone reception and a leaky wood stove. No company except for a big, droolly dog. Don't get me wrong--I love Beast more than anything--but sometimes a person needs conversation, a human voice. Know what I mean? Sometimes I go into town and drink the world's worst coffee just to talk with the fleece and flannel-clad unisex lumps in the diner. What this town needs is a decent coffee shop."
"Where am I?" asked the man again. "What town?"
"Oh, it's called Puddledunk. We're sort of in the middle of nowhere."
"Oh my gosh, Petey is locked in the house without his dinner!"
"If he's a little terrier mix, he might be out here in the woods with my dog Beast."
"What?" the man exclaimed, sitting up. Just then an unidentified furry object knocked into his sore head with the force of a baseball, knocking him out again.
Go to Rocco's House for the next chapter!