Arkansas Interlude with the OCD Puppy
September 21st, 2006
We interrupt our scheduled tales of Sinai to bring you a few snippets of my latest adventures visiting the family in Arkansas (a.k.a The Promised Land).
First of all, Tirian the Sheltie puppy, who is now five months old, is as adorable as promised. I’m also happy to find that he’s a bit obsessive-compulsive—which means that he truly is a member of our family. If something is out of place, Tirian will bark at it until someone puts it back where it belongs. It’s partially that herding dog instinct to make sure the sheep are where they should be, but he seems to take this impulse farther than any of my family’s previous Shelties.
Much of my time in Arkansas was spent playing tug with Tirian, running with Tirian, chasing Tirian when he ran away with my socks, keeping Tirian from nibbling my hair, etc. I think he somehow knows that I’m his less furry big sister. The Mink also flew to Arkansas to join us, and Tirian welcomed her as an auntie.
We took the pupster on a few short hikes, but even cute, intelligent, OCD puppies can’t handle a six-mile hike, so we left him behind the day Pop Otter, Mink, and I went to a place called Hemmed-In Hollow, which boasts the tallest waterfall between the Appalachians and the Rockies. It was a good thing that we left him behind, for this was the day of my near-death encounter with a copperhead.
Okay, so it didn’t bite me. But it very easily could have. We were hiking in a line of three, Dad in front, me in the middle, and Mink in back. Dad must have stepped over the copperhead without seeing it, but I saw it in the middle of the trail just as I was about to step on it. Having seen them a lot (but usually squashed by the side of the road) while growing up, I knew what it was immediately. I think I thought “copperhead” before I even thought “snake.” I jumped back and started shrieking my head off like an idiot.
The copperhead darted off to the side of the trail and stayed there, still within full view.
By this time, Pop Otter had turned around and yelled, “Don’t move! Stay there!” I had no intention of moving, even if I hadn’t been paralyzed with fear. Behind me, Mink’s leg’s were shaking.
Pop Otter took a detour around on the other side of the trail to reach us, looking at the snake as he did so. “It’s a copperhead,” he announced. I know it’s a copperhead, I thought—that’s why I’m screaming.
It’s amazing how many thoughts can run through your head at once when you’re scared. At first, I’d been indignant, thinking Dad had seen the copperhead and not told us about it so that we wouldn’t panic. But when I realized that he hadn’t seen it at all, I was mad at him for not having seen it. The fear switch and the irrational anger switch seem to be closely related in us humans.
Mink and I refused to go farther on that trail, for fear that the copperhead might sneak back onto it and be in the same place on our way back. So we retraced our steps . . . and discovered that we had been on the wrong path after all. The copperhead path would have led us to the river, but not to the waterfall. Now, if I were a Calvinist, I’d say that it was all for the best, and that the copperhead was meant to turn us back onto the right path. But I ain’t no Calvinist. If God were really that concerned that we see the waterfall instead of the river, I’m sure he could have made us pay attention to the signs in the first place. I’m not going to blame the inconvenient whereabouts of snakes on God and insincerely call it a “blessing.” But I will be thankful that none of us had to be carried out of the woods with a tourniquet-wrapped leg.
I also seem to have acquired either chigger bites or poison ivy (probably the latter, I fear) on one of our hikes. Gee, I’ve missed Arkansas. (And those of you who know me know that I really do miss my home state, even though it has many death- or itch-inducing critters.)
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4 Comments Add your own
1. Mink | September 21st, 2006 at 6:01 pm
For the record, everyone, the Otter did not in fact shriek her head off like an idiot. She “eep”ed and then stated quite rationally, if more loudly and in a higher pitch than usual, that she had almost stepped on a copperhead. I confess I would have done far worse than she had I been second in line. I would have also been far harder to carry up the hill tourniqueted. Phew!
2. theotter | September 21st, 2006 at 6:10 pm
Aw, thanks, dahling. I think there were a few repeated, prolonged “eeps,” though.
As I’ve said before, I like hiking with people (i.e., you!) who are as phobic about snakes as I am. I still insist that those were not rattlesnakes on the trail in Colorado . . .
3. Pop Otter | September 22nd, 2006 at 9:51 pm
Early on the six mile hike, I had recounted my youthful close encounter with a copperhead in order to be honest with the Mink that I could not promise the absence of snakes on the trail. Seems like I would have turned my attentiveness meter up a notch or two at that point, but you know preachers. We are better at warning than at being warned.
I was busy looking at the creek, trying to figure out why we were walking downstream. That would be a good reason to turn around, not a good reason to miss a directional sign and a copperhead.
D’Otter, you did indeed eep, which alerted me to what I should have seen already, but the continual shrieking was in your head, inaudible to the rest of us, although perhaps visible in your coloring.
It is indeed good that we did not have Tirian. He might have been in striking range of the copperhead. But on an earlier 3 mile hike–about his limit–he proved his usefulness on the return portion by refusing to waver from the right path back to the car. His tracking skills are far above our earlier Shelties.
4. theotter | September 23rd, 2006 at 1:33 pm
Wow–I really did think I kept shrieking for a while.
In the meantime, as I sit here covered in calamine lotion, feeling very much like an iced animal cookie, I’m wondering if I got my poison ivy from a certain adorable puppy rather than from the plant itself. I wore long pants when we hiked, but not when I played with him. Sigh. Itch.
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