Western Missouri. The Red Baron is flying north on Highway Seven. I am the pilot. Boss Hawg is in the passenger seat and Swamp Rat is in the back. The Girls are in a separate vehicle, tailing behind in a two-car convoy. Velocity is seventy miles per hour. All is well.
Up ahead I see a dog in the road. I slam on my brakes and pull onto the shoulder by the grassy median. We jump out of my car and I approach the dog, which comes immediately. It is a beagle. One beagle, not a problem, I think. I’ll just toss her in the back seat with Swamp Rat and take her to animal control.
Suddenly, three more beagles emerge from a ditch in the median.
Four beagles? Shit.
Shit describes the situation on two levels. The first is quality. This is a shitty situation, what with the little cute doggy woggies running down the highway with no home. Second, it REEEEEEEEEKS of shit. These fucking beagle bastards stink like Satan’s bunghole after a discount Mexican buffet. I hypothesize that they have been rolling in/eating road kill.
Like this. But times four and stinking of death.
All four beagles circle around me. The stench is thick and hits my brain like a bong rip of sun-dried turds. I start dry heaving. Boss and Swamp are laughing. The Girls have come to a stop on the opposite shoulder and run over to assess the situation.
I gather myself and face the filthy hounds. Two of The Girls are actually holding dogs, which blows my mind. To me these girls are now lepers. I breathe through my mouth and tell everyone to get the dogs in the back seat of my car. We push and pull and toss the four beagles into the back seat with poor Swamp Rat. I almost puke again.
We roll out quickly with the windows down. I hold my head out the window and gag uncontrollably. Boss has his torso out the passenger window, guffawing brilliantly. Swamp Rat is immersed in dogs, suffering with windows that can’t roll down.
“Dude!” Swamp yells, “Dude! One of them is fucking freaking out back here! Seriously! Dude! Fuck!”
He’s right. One, if not all of the dogs are freaking out like furry crack heads. I look back and see a mess of dog bodies jumping all over Swamp, who is squeezing his eyes tight and shaking his head. One of the dogs is clawing at his leg.
“Please!” Swamp says, “Please, Will! Please take the next exit! Please!”
Swamp Rat’s cries for mercy are greeted with a near exit. I pull off quickly, drive away from the highway to a vacant lot and then release the fantastic foursome. I dry heave a few more times for good measure. I call an emergency number posted nearby but am told by the operator that animal control doesn’t exist in this location. The dogs run off and don’t say thank you.
My car stinks like a dead body so I breathe through my mouth and keep the windows down for the journey home. Swamp Rat seems traumatized but will be considered a hero for his ability to sit with four rancid beagles on his lap for nearly two minutes. Boss Hawg laughs endlessly.
I was like being on the inside of a munged corpse.