I’ve got the heebie-jeebies.
Not to be confused with the freaked-outs or the willies. And it’s nothing like the case of the heebies that I had when I was 16 years old... alone in the house... at nigh... watching the Exorcist on HBO... with every light in the house on, my back to the wall, white-knuckling an old baseball bat. Apparently, I thought the anti-Christ was no match for a Louisville Slugger held together with Elmer’s Glue and electrical tape.
Tonight’s case of the heebie-jeebies started with walking the dogs down the trail under a full moon.
We have two dogs. Ollie is docile and mostly made up of a tongue. Probably an anteater mix. Do not get your face near her or you will get a nostril or ear plugged at lightning speed. Tebby is small. Not small enough to wear a tiara and sit in a purse, but small enough to get a bath in the sink after she rolls in wet deer poo (what IS it with that?).
Tebby is a Cockapoo. This has nothing to do with the story, I just like saying it. She is also an avid hunter and not afraid of going after a juicy elk or a fresh 200 pound bear (oh, the stories).
On this night, though, she was spooked. Something had her freaked out, and it wasn’t long before I was jumping at every little twig crack or dry grass rustle. I started envisioning a cougar or bear or wookilar jumping out of the pine trees and eating my head. I thought about holding Tebby and Ollie up on each side of my head as a sacrifice to whatever evil beast was stalking us, but that would negate the walk, and I really don’t like it when Ollie sticks her tongue in my ear. Instead I picked up a rotten stick. Nothing says “Don’t mess with me!” better that a stick that might make you sting a little or leave a red mark.
By the time we got back to the driveway, both Tebby and I were as jumpy as crack-heads at a police ball. Ollie was licking grass and apparently oblivious to the hungry dragon, or whatever it was, in the bushes.
I noticed my stick had fallen apart somewhere along the way, but obviously served its purpose of making me fearsome enough to warrant a second thought from the beasties of the night. We made the front porch with the moonlight on our backs and a sigh of relief that we were uneaten.
Do they make machine washable armor? How about shark cages with openings so you can stick your feet out? Pepper spray footie pajamas?
And here I thought you were a rough, tough wilderness ranger, having braved the wilds of Yellowstone and the Olympic Peninsula coastline. Surely you've come across Big Foot before , or perhaps a couple of drunken Indians. Could they be any worse than a few creaking trees in the dark of Sky Canyon? ;-)
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