Who Says Dogs Don't Have a Sense of Humor?

When I become a grandparent I've promised myself to think twice before taking the grandkids camping or on trips for that matter. I'll pretend I lost my hearing aids and can't hear their requests. I arrived at this conclusion after contemplating what my brothers and I put my grandparents through when they took us on outings.

I remember one summer my grandparents, thinking of a way to add pain and misery to their lives, decided to take my brothers and me on a trip through Yellowstone National Park.

For the sightseer in Yellowstone a car parked to the side of the road means only one thing, an animal sighting. Unfortunately, to the practical joker visiting the park, this presents an opportunity for mischief.

At one point during our tour of Yellowstone, Mother Nature began vigorously testing the threshold of my body's ability to hold liquids. Being a Youngster of 9 years, I was a bit leery about walking into the woods to find a tree to use as a substitute for the proper facilities normally sought after when Ma Nature wins the battle of the bladder.

My grandfather finally took me by the hand and said, "Come on Doug, I've got to go too." Together we walked up a small incline, entered the forest and found a couple of suitable commodes.

It wasn't long until Gramps and I noticed all types of vehicles parking up and down the highway. People were piling out of those vehicles, aiming binoculars and cameras, with telephoto lenses, in our direction.

Sweat began to trickle and then pour down my body as the fear ran through me that my grandpa and I were sharing our "outdoor bathroom facility" with some wild animal of the wood.
But as we looked around (trying to see what beast of prey was about to devour us), we noticed my brothers leaning out the windows of the car, pointing in our direction, screaming "Bear, bear!"

I never knew the human face could turn so deep a shade of red as ours did at that moment. As we saw people focusing their binoculars, in our direction, and heard the click of camera shutters, it seemed to me the temperature of that cool mountain air rose to the point that Death Valley would have felt like the Arctic.

After stalling for a spell, it was obvious that the people in the "bear jam" weren't leaving until Papa bear and his cub came out of the forest to receive the cheers and joshing the two knew awaited them.

"Let's go. It doesn't look like we can get out of this one," Grandpa said, as we zipped up our pants and walked back to the car.

As we returned to the car, I saw my brothers laughing so hard I was tempted to put a paper bag tightly over their faces, to prevent hyperventilation, of course.

I recall another trip with my grandma and grandpa when we went camping in the Bitter Root Mountains of Idaho to cut wood in preparation for heating their home during the oncoming winter.

Our camp was about 10,000 feet above sea level. Do you know what 10,000 feet above sea level feels like to a boy who grew up by the ocean? As we drove higher and higher up the mountain to where we'd make camp for the night, I began to wonder when the oxygen masks were going to pop out of the ceiling of our truck, like I'd seen them do in those airplane horror movies which always seem to show up on TV the night before you're scheduled to fly out of town.

Well, we were sitting around the campfire that first night when all of a sudden the air around us filled with the putrid smell of burning rubber.

Mass confusion distilled upon us as we scrambled around the campsite searching for the cause of the stench. At a glance, our tent, and various other camping gear, seemed in good order.

Suddenly, a screech of terror rang through the woods which I was sure would cause the windows in the truck to shatter. "My boots! My boots!" exclaimed my oldest brother as he danced in circles around the camp doing some sort of fire dance. Admiring his magnificent display of grace and coordination, we noticed the heel of his right rubber boot was melted half off while the heel of the other was smoldering and attaching itself to any loose object my brother happened to prance on.

Later that night, sound asleep in our tent, I was awakened by the foul smell of bad breath against my face. Promises? Talk about promises. I quickly began promising the Lord all kinds of things if he'd just turn the bear in my tent into a vegetarian. "I'll never fight with my brothers again. I'll mind my mom and dad;I'll do everything they say. I'll even let Aunt Saliva Lips, ugh, I mean, I'll let Aunt Hulga kiss me--even if her breath does smell worse than this bear's."

While breaking out in a mass of hives (hey, some people break out in hives when faced with death, others lose control of bodily functions; I prefer the former), I finally got the nerve to open one eye just enough to see the source of my fears. I immediately relaxed...and felt a little embarrassed.

Poncho, one of my grandparents' German shepherds, had snuggled against me in his sleep--seemingly oblivious to the fact that he had caused me to make a bunch of promises I now had to keep...and they say dogs don't have a sense of humor.

"These Boots Were Made for Walking" (and Not to Be Used As a Wallet)

Often, doing things the cheap way isn't always the best way. I learned that lesson a while back.

A few years ago, a bud and I flew to Nashville, Tennessee. Since I was traveling on the American Poverty Plan, I could ill afford to lose what little traveling money I had set aside for the excursion. But I didn't want to spend what it would cost to buy traveler's checks, so my "used-to-be" wife came up with a great idea. She suggested I put my $50.00 bill, which had to last two weeks, inside one of the cowboy boots I was wearing (yes, I've been known to wear them now and then). That way if I was accosted, the bad guys wouldn't get my money.

Well, early into our trip my friend Steve and I decided on pizza for dinner. We walked into a quaint little place and gave our order to the counter person.

As we made an attempt to seat ourselves at a table, it was pointed out that the policy was for customers to pay at the counter first. This bit of information caused Steve to burst into uncontrollable laughter, for he figured that the 50 dollars of mine had by now slithered all around the inside of my boot, and he could just picture the scene I'd make as I tried to hunt it down. And he was right.

There I was, standing on one leg, the other raised in the air, resembling something akin to a clumsy flamingo in cowboy boots, with both hands digging around inside the boot of my raised foot, searching for my money. I might as well have put a flashing neon sign on my back that read "COME ROB ME!"

This whole scenario wouldn't have been half so bad if it hadn't been for the broken table and chairs, not to mention my head, arm and ribs. You see, in my struggle to get my money out of its human vault, I began teetering back and forth. As I did so, I attempted, out of pure reflex, to grab the edge of the counter, which didn't work too well considering both my hands were down my boot.

I performed a nice pirouette (it was rated a 9.5 by customers and staff alike) and fell smack into the nearest table and chairs, landing in a couple of plates of spaghetti . . .and bread . . .and sauce
. . .and soda.

Not only did I break the furniture with my landing, but I, if you can believe it, ruined the romantic dinner for the young couple fortunate enough to be sitting there, witnessing my great acrobatic feat. I thought about charging them for the entertainment, but since my act wasn't mentioned on the menu, Steve advised me to leave it alone.

But the worst of this whole ordeal was how it all ended. You see, my arm and ribs weren't injured from smashing into the furniture. Nooooooo, that came later, when the E.M.T.s , after I told them what had happened, laughed so hard they dropped the stretcher they were carrying me on.

So, the next time you see a commercial on T.V. about the convenience of traveler's checks, take it from me, you really ought to listen.