[dropcap]I[/dropcap]f you ever visit Laurel Hill, Florida with your wife and dog, don’t open the truck door, one of them will run off. If you’re unlucky, both will.
It might happen like this:
You might be at a gas station. Perhaps, your dog catches sight of a squirrel, or develops restless leg syndrome. Your dog might bound out of the cab faster than a spit stain. Well, that’s what mine did. Immediately trailing behind her was my uncoordinated wife. The two of them bounded across an open fieldlike kids chasing an ice cream truck.
We tracked Ellie up to Florala, Alabama, where I taunted her with a Slim Jim. “Here Ellie, c’mon. Daddy’s not mad. Looky, Daddy’s happy. You’re so pretty, yes you are.”
Ellie made eye-contact, licked her who-who, then trotted off toward Canada.
When I got back to the truck, my wife had taken over at the wheel. “Get in!”Jamie barked.
She sped through ten miles of dirt before I could even shut my passenger door. “Hang on!” she yelled. “I see her!”
We finally found Ellie Mae sniffing daisies on a dead-end gravel road. Jamie slammed the brakes, then clicked on the hazard lights in a kind of Mexican standoff. But Ellie Mae didn’t even notice the crazy brunette with the twitching eyelid. Ellie meandered into a ditch, and wallowed in the muddy water like a baby sow on Labor Day.
Jamie rolled up her pant legs and said, “I’m going to get that little bitch.”
It sounded simple enough.
Except, ditches in Alabama can be twelve-feet deep.