I don’t know how many dusty trails I’d eaten, but the next one seemed even more dry than the one before. I’d spent the whole day cleaning the camp, while Lola was out scouting ahead, something she insisted on doing, and I for one was not going to talk her out of it.
I didn’t mind being on a horse, really. Other than smelling like that horse when the day was done, not being able to keep my balance on its back, and not having it listen to anything I had to say. In some ways, kind of like being in a relationship. Oh, I wouldn’t mind its company, and it didn’t mind when I retold the odd story or two, not unlike Lola who told me point blank, “keep your tales of your past inside your own head. We can’t use information not having to do with guns, plots against/from the government, or what the enemy knows about us”.
It didn’t matter to me what we talked about. Kind of like what happened last year, while we were considering what and who was against us, and how we would deal with it!
Well, it all started late last summer when we were shoveling the winter snow off the porch once and for all, getting ready for the summer, as it were. Lola said it might be nice for once if we did something other than just work, or wasting our time shooting at those darn irritating, no good, lowdown, ought to be killed outright on sight, or poisoned (if we did that sort of thing, which we didn’t) white rabbits that always seemed to be in and around, under foot, or proudly decorating the table for the evening meal.
I suggested we mosey along to the State Fair in Palmer, but that is when the first troubles started.
“Palmer, Alaska!” she shouted, shaking over her whole body, her bullets falling her and about onto our newly swept porch, being covered by the first flakes of Late-summer snow, making Lola’s hair just a bit more grey along the edges, but I never said that, OK?
“We might as well saddle up the horses and head towards Barrow, if you want to go farther than that, Huh?” I might have said, yes, no, or let’s talk about it over a bottle of vintage Peapod Burgundy, but there is a time and place for talking, and…now how did the rest of that line go?
“There are exhibits, and such” I added quickly, before the guns started firing, or the TNT explosions disturbing the neighbors 5 miles away. “Gun Shows and whatnot”.
Lola just turned to me slowly. I held my Mouse to Eagle position, not letting my tail to move one micron, while she scanned the landscape for the meal of the day. There are restrictions though, I hastened to say. The State fair doesn’t permit Firearms, knives or weapons of any kind, which for the rest of us thinking about visiting this annual event, seemed like a good idea, while people like my Lola roamed the streets and countryside of our vast state!
Somewhere up ahead on the trail, I was imagining how Lola was involved in her Classic Tracking Style, with her nose to the ground, spread eagle, listening to the singing wires of the Telegraph, or tracking the unseen enemy while crawling along through the underbrush, knife in her mouth, ready, willing and waiting to strike at a second’s notice!
That’s why I was better off (and safer) back at camp, getting ready for dinner, and warming the water for Lola’s hot bath and hoping that in time she would forget what happened during the Shooting Galley Incident, or what the newspapers chose to call it after it happened?
Not having her “babies” with her didn’t make matters any better, when she bellied up to the Shooting Galley and started inspecting the rifles. “This one pulls to the left” and after saying so, pointed it at the vendor, whose bullet-proof vest was unfortunately not covering his head, as it were. “While this one here” showing me and the others lying on the ground “Is obviously defective, endangering the rest of us, God-fearing, Proud of our Flag-waving, and decent citizens of this Great State!” Some of the people on the ground staggered to their feet and put their hands over their hearts in case the Pledge of Allegiance was about to be recited, but it didn’t faze me at all. I lived with the woman, I knew as Lola,you know?
Lola started to take aim, and was doing pretty well, when a row of white rabbits showed up in her sights. There aren’t enough bullets this side of Gunville (located in the Far-Left of Alaska) for Lola to fire at those poor, metal creatures, but she managed to hit every single one of them, and every other plate, prize, various hats worn by the crying patrons, and the cords holding the tent above our very heads, thus plunging the fabric over us, creating a mayhem scenario, super-seeding the worst/best warm film ever made.
I managed to crawl out from under, dragging Lola with me, still cursing and vowing to “show their skinny white butts who was in charge here” and hightailing it for the main entrance. We just threw ourselves into the Willy’s and drove off in a puff of a non-smoke of a Mount Augustine eruption and set our sights for the Kenai Peninsula once again.
I had just finished warming the water for Lola’s bath when she returned with that “Don’t ask” look in her eyes. Not all enemies can be found, nor could they be identified, but that didn’t detract from an outing with my Gal, camouflage clothing and the rest of what went along with it.
Lola just sank down into the steaming water, and allowed me to scrub her back with our genuine imitation, non-synthetic Luffa Sponge, while enjoying a glass of Peapod Burgundy. We each had our own pleasures in this life, running alongside the ones, we shared together. I let Lola do what she loved best, as long as it didn’t involve more hostage situations, or prison-break incidents. She, on the other hand, allowed me to pamper her as much as possible, letting me love her as much as she felt, she deserved. We had the best of both worlds, though I did draw the line with us sharing our bed with the odd 30-30 Winchester, even though it was her favorite!
“I just love when those guns go off” she said, with a smile in her eyes, while sinking lower into the water, allowing the steam to soften the stars above me, basking in their warming mists….