Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

You are here: Home / Home

love notes to Meh, the world’s sweetest, spiciest llama

This is hard to share, hard to accept, and hard to know how to write.

Last Friday, after a scary and intense couple of days driving back and forth to the animal hospital, we said goodbye to our precious Meh, the world’s sweetest and spiciest llama.

“Meh.” xoxoxo

We are happy to answer any questions his friends may have, and actually I will share in a separate post what had been happening in his life and how it all came to a head last week. For now, I would really like to just honor his spirit and invite his friends to share a little memory. Because man was he a memory maker!

Meh was was one the few Farmily members who was actually born here at the Lazy W, not adopted. He joined us in early June, 2014, so he was fast approachng his tenth birthday. He earned the named “Meh” because from infancy he tottered all around these nine acres just mewing that sing-song word that could mean literally anything and everything. “Meh! Meh! meh meh meh” all day long. Meh. With a hundred unique intonations. It used to crack us up. When he was old and naughty enough to earn a verbal reprimand, we cracked up all over again because have you ever tried to say MEH sternly and with authority? Try it right now. It’s hard to do. He chose his sound, and name, wisely.

He was caramel colored, eventually brown, and especially skinny at birth; but he put on weight like a champ. By Meh’s first birthday, we had adopted Klaus, and the two of them became instant friends. We have always felt that they grew up together, and most of the time I don’t think Meh knew he was a llama. He always tried to hang out with the horses, but the three of them often had conflict. So he gravitated happily to our big German Shepherd, who is a friend to all. Those two provdided just the right amount of play fighting that each could handle, and we loved it.

The Bachelors.

Meh was not destined to mate with a female llama, but nobody told his hormones. He was in tact and ready to party, which is part of what made him such an excellent farm protector. Not one coyote has appeared in all the years we have had him, and I remember years before seeing not just coyotes but also at least one cougar, plus lots of bobcats. He had a penchant for my brunette girlfriends and a few male friends with long, usually dark colored, beards. We warned guests to never go into this field without me, and I ususally carried a pitchfork if the guest was brunette. We called it wearing a llama backpack. If you have ever received that particular show of affection from a large animal, you will not forget it.

He was not just protective and territorial but also smart and hilarious. Meh was easily one of the most social animals we have ever had the pleasure (and terror) of caring for. He would stretch his massive, noodly neck, absolutely wrapped in thick muscles, over the fence, yearning for a face to face conversation. The final result could be anything from a sweet, fuzzy-mouth, butterfly kiss to poofed up cheeks ready to launch vomit-spit. We told people they were taking their own chances, yo. His reasons for preferring some people over others were his and his alone. Apart from hair color, it was hard to discern.

Meh enjoys the distinciton of being the only Farmily member whose portrait we have ever commissioned.

Overall, Meh was so loving. He had a lot of love to give, and he needed just as much in return. He demanded it. He was far from being a solitary creature. Although he didn’t love to be brushed, he would often sidle up between the horses while they were being groomed. He also was amenable to a necessary summertime shearing, so long as his BFF Klaus was nearby to let him know everything was ok. He loved for his throat to be scratched and petted, especially by his Daddy. He tolerated mowkawk tickles.

Meh rejected 99% of the treats offered to him over the years, but his appetite for hay and sweet grain was strong. When we rejected breakfast last Wednsday, I knew he was in trouble. He had never in all these years missed one meal.

Meh was physically much stronger than his skinny legs might make you think. And his soul was as deep as his eyelashes were long. He was moody, yes, but aren’t we all? And he was noisy always, gradually progressing from his monoyllabic chant to a truly impressive Xena Princess Warrior trilling type of scream that was so loud and unsetttling, our neighbors have on a few occassions thought it was me, being attacked. Zero out of ten stars, do not recommend hearing that sound in the middle of the night.

((come at me bro))

Meh was one of the most emotional and expressive creatures I have ever known. When Romulus died, he grieved outwardly in dramatic, almost theatrical ways. He laid over Rom’s body, scraped his head up and down over his father’s neck, and wailed in a brand new, guttural way. If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I would have trouble understanding this description, so if you cannot envision it, I get that. Just know that he felt the loss profoundly. He knew. His grief was undeniable, and we cried all over again that day, just watching him cry. The same thing happened with Shelby back in November. That, in fact, was the day Meh’s aggressive behavior turned a corner. But I’ll share more of that in his medical story.

Meh the llama wondering why I take so many pictures of him.
Dulcie is annoyed at no longer being the darling of the farm. Seraphine is fussing with Romulus, who is easily cowed down by her. Meh is bright and chipper, oblivious to the conflict.

Meh was mostly brown with lots of black and white markings. He had mile long, broomy eye lashes and strong, narrow hooves. I saw a wide ribbon of fresh llama prints in the back field the day afetr we buried him, and I wanted to pour concrete over them so we could see them forever.

Because Meh was born here, and for a thousand intimate reasons, we decided to forego the service that would have removed his body for offsite burial. My husband dug an excellent grave by hand, and we laid him to rest, deep in the front field. We wrapped him with one of Klaus’ bedsheets and gave him a bouquet of some of the garden treasures he has always eaten quite without permission. I will very much miss scoldoing him for tomato and okra contriband this summer. We plan to grow a pine tree near his grave, because almost no matter the weather, he has always preferred to sleep beneath one.

The farm is stragely quiet without him. Klaus has looked for Meh in the last place they saw each other, and that breaks my heart. And we are feeling both the grief of missing him in particular as well as what feels like an accumulation of grief from so many losses over these past thirteen months. More than ever before, in all the years we have lived here, we have said goodbye so many times. Such is the nature of aging animals and, well, life in general. Jessica said it best when she reminded me gently, that it is not meant for any creature to live forever. Not human, not animal. Everyone dies.

But still. I would love to run to outside once more and negotiate a desperate peace treaty between our spicy llama and his pasture mates. I would love to purposefully grow an extra row of okra and peppers so he can uproot and destroy as many as his heart desires. And I know my husband would love to come home after work and receive Meh’s reliable driveway kisses and cryptic grunts and moans. Everyone will miss him at family holidays and community farm parties. He was the life of the party. He will almost certainly be our last llama.

If you have a special memory of our boy, whether funny or terrifying or anything at all, we would be so happy if you shared it!Thank you for loving our Farmily with us.

XOXOXO
Brandy & Marie & Klaus
Meh’s Loyal & Hearbroken Subjects

a farm story and a message about starting not quite from scratch

This morning I found this story in my blog drafts, sketched out August, 2021. I remember this day clearly and hope you will enjoy the story. It was in 2023 that we lost both Marigold and Romulus. So these memeories are bittersweet, heavy on the sweet. xoxo

Last weekend we had a scare with Romulus that evolved into a sweaty, chaotic, hilarious episode with Little Lady Marigold. It all ended well, thankfully; and after some reflection it also provided me a lesson about compounding progress. About how despite the way things sometimes feel, we are not often starting truly from scratch. We may take a few steps backwards sometimes, but good progress tends to stick. Square One, no matter how it looms behind us, may be nothing to fear.

((summertime nephews visiting marigold))

This is what happened.

I had walked outside just three or four minutes before sunrise, to greet the day and walk around saying hello to all the Farmily. By the time I reached Retirement Village (where Romulus and LLM reside), the sun was glowy peach and all the gardens shone dewy. Roosters in the south coop crowed their greetings, and Marigold was baa-ing; but Romulus was nowhere to be found. He was gone.

Our big, regal, black and white llama had liberated himself in order to join the Middle Field Bachelors, his progeny Meh one of them. Llamas have a lot to prove to the world, and their violent competitiveness is the main reason we had them separated. Happily, the horses were too engrossed in their early breakfast to pay attention to Romulus’ unnerving stares, and Meh (this surprised me the most) was visibly terrified of his Dad. It would have been funny if it wasn’t a little bit sad.

What happened next was a long series of cautious attempts by me to lure Romulus back to Retirement Village while Handsome repaired the fence damage caused during the predawn Llama Liberation.

Revolucion!

In the midst of all of this, we had to keep Little Lady Marigold more or less inside Retirement Village and Meh and the horses more or less far away, despite a necessarily open gate between them. The trick here, as you can imagine, is that all of these activities are precisely the opposite of what all the animals wanted to do. Probably, Murphy’s Law was made official on a hobby farm.

Also, my system was short one cup of strong coffee and Handsome greatly preferred to be watching cartoons at that hour. Also, at this point, Klaus was unsure of his role in this drama. He swarmed the scene, waiting for instruction.

It’s fine.

After almost ninety minutes of frustratingly slow progress peppered by the frustration of sudden retreats, Romulus decided all on his own to slip nonchalantly back into his fenced yard and help himself to breakfast, as if nothing had happened at all. At the exact moment that he did so, his timid sheep companion bolted. I mean she moved like quicksilver, a grey and white blur, through the open gate, past the pond, and straight into the unlikely comfort of eight strong horse legs. She hid behind and among the horses as if they were her big brothers and I was the school yard bully come to steal her lunch money. Had she already forgotten all the little moments we had shared recently, all the love at our fingertips? Meh was as nonplussed as I have ever seen him. Klaus salivated audibly, his desire to give chase an obscene visitor in the room. My sweet, exasperated husband who just-wants-one-day-off-for-the-love-of-all-things-holy yelled, “Well she’s gone! Just let her go!” And threw his hands up in defeat.

It’s fine. It’s very, very fine and okay. We’re fine.

Let me tell you that the first chapter of llama drama that day was far outshined by the second chapter of herding victory.

In my flipflops and cotton pajamas, I chased and lured and lured and begged and chased and pleaded with Marigold to return to the safety of Retirement Village, but it was like a woven straw Chinese handcuff, one of those finger traps from childhood, remember? The more I struggled to “help” her, the less she wanted my help. The literal distance between us grew, and I started to worry about the figurative distance. Was she actually afraid of me?

So in desperation and maybe surrender, we employed Klaus. His natural herding instincts ignited like wildfire! As light and fast as his quarry was, this beast was smarter and more powerful. He gave chase like a missile, he pulled back to widen his circle, he tightened it again, he lassoed her uphill and across the middle field. And despite how much he fears the horses himself, having narrowly survived an angry hoof stomping when he was a puppy, he eventually needled her away from the safety of their tall legs. Smiling and focused and perfectly on task, our boy was magificent. Living out his purpose and thrilled about it.

She ran and ran and ran, like nothing I have ever seen before. A tiny poof of dirty wool with stick legs and bug eyes, she screamed and slipped through the three wire fence near my big vegetable garden (please god no!). She passed the giant hydrangeas, skeetered across the wood deck, and stood stubbornly in the shade, near the fruit trees and south coop. Cornered, without the horses to protect her. Klaus standing guard. Everyone panting.

I crept around the bonfire and slowly opened that big red cattle gate, saying little prayers the whole time that she would see the open invitation. She did. She walked in. I closed the gate. It was all over in a moment. She ate breakfast with Romulus, very casually, as if nothing had happenedand everything was normal.

It was touch and go for a bit, and it definitely drained our big sweet Shepherd of all his morning energy, but it was done.

This is the part about not fearing Square One:

The relief of having ROmulus and LLM in their safe place was somewhat eclipsed by the fear that LLM was now afraid of me. That all of the cuddly progress we had been making lately seemed now shattered by the adrenalous chasing drama. For the next few days I was extra gentle with her, demading nothing, offering her food and space and sweet talking and gentleness, honestly apologizing to her sweet spirit for the terror that morning.

Would we still be friends?

The answer is, yes.

After two or three tentative interactions that next week, things returned pretty quickly to where we left off. She remembered in just a few feedings that we were friends, that I was not there to hurt her. Gradually she allowed me to tap her narrow snoot, stroke her cheek with the outside of my finger, and talk to her while she ate contentedly. I thought maybe we were back to Square One or worse, but that wasn’t the case at all. We had retained most of the affectionate progress.

Love was still at our fingertips, err, hooves.

((the first week Romulus lived here, 2013, I spent hours sitting with him, earning his trust. He called me thirsty))

Continuing January 2024:

This story was good for me to revisit, two and a half years later. Life is full of good projects and efforts that sometimes take several steps backwards, and I don’t know about you, but when this happens I often worry that I am starting all the way over. I resist Square One almost with fear. This thought process is so exhausting! We don’t want to lose the progress we have made; and this is understandable.

The more I pay attention, though, and the more I see patterns develop over time, the more I believe that much of the work we do in life tends to stick. We learn and do really good, satisfying work. We make mistakes and slip up, we learn new and better tricks, we gather strength and practice the basics and try fancy stuff. Things happen to us that are very much outside our control. We respond to them and cope. We heal. We spiral upwards, sometimes slowly, sometimes at an indiscernible rate. Then sometimes we skyrocket! and get dizzy from the sudden progress.

But over time, we do grow. Even in winter, in seasons of waiting and resting, we are alive. Putting down roots, saving nutrients for the next burst of life. We can trust that.

I think that more often than not, even on days when llamas escape for no reason and sheep run away from us despite our hard won friendship, we can trust that good things generally return to normal, or even better than normal. Our efforts are not wasted. Square One is fine, too, if you ever do happen to land there again, nothing to fear. Because by then you will be changed. You will be a different person there than you were the first time around.

Trust your progress.
Love your sheep.
Keep an eye on wandering llamas.
It’s going to be okay.
XOXOXO

mystery excavation, part four

Click here to read part one.

Click here to read part two.

Click here to read part three.

“The thing is,” the cop said before clearing his throat again, “that this smell came up earlier his week. Weirdest thing ever. And I can’t believe I’m even telling you about it. But I think we better find out more about the grave, uh, hole, you saw in the woods.”

This calm but somewhat loaded revelation from an authority figure had an effect on Lydia. The filmy ideas in her head were now trying to take shape. Heat rose in her body, and she felt that swell of adrenaline again. Her right foot began to bounce. Again she had the urge to run away, but she was anchored to the moment and hoping the cop would know what to do. She knew she would have to tell her husband all the details now, regardless of what he’s dealing with at work.

“I can take you,” she assured him. It would be such a relief for someone else to see the hole itself, not just a photo. She looked for the first time at his name tag. Kevin Michael. Two first names.

After calling for another patrol car and making various updates over his phone and laptop, Officer Michael turned his flashing lights on but not his siren and followed Lydia in her yellow car about a mile around the block, where it would be easier to access the woods. Once they both parked, he kept her from getting out of her car until the other police officer arrived, at which time there was lots of hushed conversation and nodding and looking around in every direction. He still had possession of the strangely scented glove, which he retrieved from his car and showed to his colleague, who recoiled and let out an expletive under his breath. What could it be? What happened already that this is so alarming?

The abundant sunshine from just a little while ago was now slashed and interrupted by white. Clouds were being pulled like cotton candy across the cold blue. Newly invigorated winds combed the trees and screamed. Everyone pulled their jackets tightly. Lydia felt out of balance wearing only one glove, so she peeled it off, tossed it into her car, and pushed her hands, cold and fisted, more deeply in her pockets.

Soon a third police officer arrived. Female. She was driving an SUV painted with K-9 warnings. Old looking for a young woman, she had a square, sturdy frame and a serious face. Her hair was slicked into an intense, narrow French braid and her arms, bare even in winter, were heavily freckled, pink and tan like someone who has never worried about sunscreen. She wore blade style sunglasses and no gloves, no coat. Just her uniform and, in a moment, her dog, who leaped energetically out of the back seat and stood with perfect attention at her side.

The three officers conferred without Lydia but with a gentle awareness of her presence. Then Kevin Michael stayed with her, either to distract her or gather more details, maybe both, while the K-9 handler and the other male cop walked towards the opening of the trail.

“It’s through here?”

“Yes, you go in there, curve a little bit, and take the first right. Just about a hundred yards in, by some wild roses. You won’t miss it.” She had barely missed it, almost stepped into, while running. They had to see it while walking and searching on purpose, right?

Every sound, every snapped twig or shaking bough of dry leaves, every vehicle speeding past on the paved road behind them, startled Lydia. She had the overwhelming need to call her husband. To have him here for this before it went any further.

“Can I call my husband?”

“You can do anything you want,” Officer Michael very nearly chuckled, “You’re not under arrest.”

So she sat down in her car and texted him, rather than call again. She did her best to relay all the facts but down play it a little, choose her typed words carefully so he didn’t panic, but after just a short exchange he said he was on his way. He would leave right then.

  Don’t go anywhere Stay with the cops.

  Ok love you! See you soon!

He gave no reply to this last ditch effort to lighten the mood. He was probably already walking to his car or maybe even already driving.

Standing again in the cold, just waiting, she decided to see what she could learn.

“What do you think is going on? Do you know the guy?”

“We really don’t know much at all. And I shouldn’t talk to you about that anyway. But we will get in there and see what the rectangular, um, hole might be. And we will see about connecting dots with this smell on your glove. It is weird, I gotta admit.” He made eye contact with her a few times, a practiced skill of steadying a nervous subject.  But mostly he cast his gaze off in the distance, thinking, chewing quietly on the shape his own filmy thoughts were taking.

“I saw him again.” She remembered suddenly to tell him about the quick moment the man had driven past them at the bank. “He was driving the pickup they usually have parked at the maintenance building; I always assumed it was broke down. He drove past us at the bank while you were calling someone.”

“Did you see where he went?” Razor sharp focus now, theorizing halted.

“Towards the post office.”

“Tell me about the truck again?”

She described the edges of rust on the wheel well and the faded city logo emblazoned on the door. There was a crack running along the bottom of the windshield.

She felt stupid for not having mentioned this second sighting already, but it was so startling, she almost didn’t believe it was happening, and the project of collecting more officers and getting to the woods had sucked all the oxygen out of her.

Running those early, blissful miles felt like weeks ago.

After about fifteen minutes, the second and third police officers, together with the spry K-9, emerged from the woods. The male officer had his hand on a gun holster at his hip and was speaking into a walkie-talkie on his shoulder. The woman was discreetly praising her partner for, presumably, a job well done. She avoided eye contact with people, Lydia noticed, forever favoring her dog. Though engaged withher dog, her energy was as intense as her braid.

They called Officer Michael over to their side of the gravel parking lot. Everyone exchanged more hushed expletives, more private conferring. Michael pointed and waved his arm in a way that she could tell he was updating them about the second sighting. They turned their darkly uniformed backs to the yellow car as well as to traffic. A curious driver passing by paused and gawked but did not stop. A motorcycle whizzed by well over the speed limit, and it caught the second cop’s attention, irritated him, but he didn’t budge.

Officer Michael squared his muscular shoulders a little bit and walked over. Said to Lydia, warmly, “Your husband is on his way?”

“Yes. He should be almost here.”

“Okay. Okay.” A measured pause. “Why don’t you sit down and stay warm. Just hang tight for a minute.”

There was seriousness hovering around him now that made her nauseous. She sat down, locked the door out of habit, and tried to breathe. Can you feel your eyes dilating, is that possible?

Her husband’s car skidded a little bit in the gravel as he parked, askew. He walked a beeline this wife’s car and Officer Michael followed. She stood up in the cold and prepared to answer lots of questions. She was so thankful for a tight hug first.

Introductions traded and names recorded, the overall information available to Lydia and her husband was still frustratingly scarce. They were being asked to stay out of the woods, of course, and her single, weirdly scented glove was now in a plastic bag.

A few minutes into the bland but necessary follow up conversation, the K-9 suddenly alerted and started pulling her lead tight. She emitted a much deeper growl and bark than anyone would have thought she possessed, and of course her human partner listened and followed her lead. In an instant, they were off. Back into the woods, headed down the same inroad, but this time they went left instead of right.

The second cop drew his gun and followed them. Officer Michael asked Lydia and her husband to stay put, get in the car again. He spoke urgently into his shoulder walkie-talkie before drawing his own gun and trotting cautiously into the woods.

The couple stood alone in the parking lot, shrouded in disbelief.

A. Does her husband follow the cops into the woods?

B. Or does he stay to protect his wife?

C. Or do they both get in their cars and get pizza on the way home?

mystery excavation part three

Click here to read part one.

Click here to read part two.

Remember to vote in comments, at the end of this post, to guide part four!

She backed out of her parking spot at an angle and shifted to D to finally leave when it occurred to her to grab the glove. She looked far in every direction but saw no sign of the tall man. Where did he go? How did he disappear so quickly? She checked her backseat. Illogical, but still. She rolled her window down and leaned out to see exactly where the glove was. Just a few steps away. She shifted back to P.

Window still down, engine still running, she opened the door wide and tip toed across the short distance to grab her glove. Slowly and softly, as if making unnecessary noise would draw him back.

She rushed back to the safety of her car, rolled her window up, and hit the lock key twice before speeding out of the parking lot, flooded with adrenaline. An unusual odor filled the car, something earthy and almost like incense. It was her glove. It wasn’t a bad odor, but the unfamiliarity of it was alarming.

The bank parking lot was barely two blocks down the road. She was thrilled to see a patrol car sitting in its usual spot, facing out, the officer inside staring at his laptop. Just seeing him there soothed her nerves, and she considered leaving. This is ridiculous, she berated herself again but parked her car anyway. Before getting out, she called her husband’s cell, which was a rare thing to do during work hours. It rang twice and went to voice mail. She let out a long breath. A minute later he texted.

  Hey babe sorry I missed you. In a rough meeting. You ok?
  Yeah I’m fine! Just checking in. Weird day.

She decided in that instant to not make a big deal out of this.

  Ok, love you, I am so hungry for dinner!
  Love you!

No need to make him worry about nothing while he’s dealing with work. She put her phone down and closed her eyes. More deep breathing.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK Quick, polite raps on her driver’s side window elicited a little yelp this time. She sat straight up and stiff.

“Are you ok, maam?” The police officer was standing an arm’s length away and slightly to the side, leaving plenty of space near the door. Her decision a moment ago to not make a big deal out of this was forgotten. In brand new instant she was ready to ask for help. She opened the door slowly, greeted him, and stood up in the cold open air.

“I’m fine, sorry, thank you for checking. This is ridiculous but I actually came over here to tell you about something. I just came from the park.” Her hands were shaking.

“Are you ok, did something happen?”

“It’s probably nothing. I feel super silly. But there was this man, and he had my glove, and…” She displayed the glove as a visual aide but lost the thread of her story.

“Why don’t you take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”

“Honestly not much actually happened, but I don’t know him. I know everyone here, I think, but not him, and still he acted like he knew me and was kind of aggressive a minute ago. And there was this long, rectangular hole in the woods. Like a small grave? Have you seen it? Has anyone else reported it? I just came from there.”

The officer studied her and was trying to reassemble the fragments of her story into something that made sense. Kind and patient, he nodded and waited. Allowed her to catch another breath before asking a question. “Did you see which way he walked?”

“Yes. He walked toward here actually, toward that maintenance building, but he disappeared so quickly I didn’t see exactly where he ended up.” She waved at the nearby building, gave as good a physical description of the man as she could, and found herself shaking less. She was thankful he was asking a few questions but doubtful that he shared her concern. A crisp breeze reinvigorated the new fragrance coming from her glove. “Do you smell that? It’s not from me. It’s not on my other glove.” He leaned in slightly to smell the glove, and a look of recognition clouded his otherwise calm expression. They locked eyes for a split second before he cleared his throat and looked away.

“You said he found your glove and brought it to you? From where again?” The officer definitely smelled what she smelled. Not quite patchouli, not quite pinion wood, but something earthy like that and almost like incense. Sweet and woodsy and new. He was resisting some new thought; she could see that in his eyes. But he was still asking questions, so she followed his lead and told him more about the rectangular hole in the woods, about where it was, how it did not have sharp edges as if cut away by the bulldozer. All the while he nodded and listened. She pulled her phone out to show him the photo and watched his face closely for more glints that might tell her what he was thinking. He swallowed, cleared his throat again, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Hhmm,” he said, nodding thoughtfully. “Let me go check something real quick. Sit tight. You ok? Can I have that?”

“I’m okay.” He gestured for the glove, and she handed it over happily, thrilled that he was taking this seriously. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was being ridiculous. But hearing so from a police officer would help her let it go. He walked to his patrol car. She sat down in the driver’s seat of her yellow car, just absorbing these tiny developments. As she waited for the officer to return, she gazed forward and just breathed. A school bus passed the bank. Then a minivan followed by a Jeep full of highschoolers. Then her breath stopped on an exhale. It was the pickup truck normally parked behind the maintenance building, which she has always assumed was permanently out of order. Behind the steering wheel was the man from the park. He stared at her, glanced to the cop and back to her, then was gone.

By the time the officer returned to her car, she was shaking again. He looked troubled, too, but not because he had seen the man in the truck.

A. Does the officer have information for her?

B. Or does the officer tell her there’s nothing to worry about, but maybe she should not go to the woods alone?

mystery excavation part two

Click here to read part one.

A surge of nervous energy rose up through her legs. Her right knee and heel started bouncing, and she looked twice more in both directions, wanting to continue her peaceful run but knowing she should get out of the woods and possibly tell someone about this. She at least needed to have a photo of it. So she pulled her cell phone out of the case on her left arm and peeled off one glove to snap a photo then replaced the phone. She was closer to the path leading north, towards the maintenance building, opposite of where she entered the trail. But that would also take her behind a row of houses whose backyards are adjacent to the trail. Maybe someone from one of those houses dug this, maybe they’re buring a pet. As soon as she formed this thought she dismissed it. Who digs a grave for a beloved pet then leaves it empty? Why would they do it here, away from their home? Is that even legal?

Irritated with herself for these pointless questions and beginning to panic about the moments she had wasted just standing still, deliberating, she turned back and ran out of the woods much faster than she had run in. The sandy, snowy path felt less welcoming than it had just minutes ago, and with every footfall she worried she was about to step into a hole concealed by snow and twist her ankle. The cold air was truly cold now, no longer refreshing. The sweat between her shoulderblades was now causing her to shivver, and her upper body felt stiff. She rounded the corner and went slightly uphill into the area that runs parallel to the houses. Music still off, eyeing the chainlink property lines, listening for dogs or horses or, now, human voices. She tried to remember more about the foot prints from earlier.

When she finally emerged from the trees and crossed the dormant lawn to the park, she looked for vehicles she might recognize at the maintenance building. None, just one truck that was always parked out back, probably never driven. She looked for anyone at the park. It was such a relief to be out in the open, but it would be a much greater relief to see a friendly face, someone who knows her. She liked knowing that her car was easy to recognize in the parking lot and that she had told her husband when and where she was going to run that day. But at that moment, there was noone around. The cold weather had kept all the regulars at home. The bathroom buildings were locked that morning, so maybe that meant the maintenance guys were off today.

What are you even thinking? What are you gonna do if you find someone, ask them to come look at the hole you found in the woods? Ridiculous. Just go home. It’s fine. She jogged briskly to the sidewalk and got uphill to the main road as quickly as possible, feeling antsy and scattered.

By the time she reached her bright yellow, easy to recognize car, she was equal parts relieved to be safe and also frustrated to have cut her fun short, probably for nothing. She grabbed her water bottle from the ground, unlocked the driver door, slid inside, and hit the door lock out of habit. Partly to ease her nerves, she sent her sister the photo of the mystery hole along with a lighthearted caption that belied her anxiousness about it all. She put the key in the ignition without turning it, got comfortable, and was beginning to relax. While she was twisted to her right clicking her seatbelt, someone knocked rapidly on her driver’s side window.

She sucked air in a wheezy gasp and whipped around so fast it hurt her throat. Her right leg got that first jolt of energy again and involuntarily slammed on the brake pedal, accomplishing nothing.

“I think you dropped this!’ An elderly Native American man was leaning down to her eye level, smiling, holding up a glove that was definitely hers. Dangling it a little. She must have dropped it when she got her phone out to take the photo.

She was frozen somewhere between the not yet drained away panic about getting out of the woods and the deeply ingrained impulse to be polite and trusting. She was supposed to appreciate the gesture, right? Open her door and accomodate his helpfulness?

“How long are ya runnin today?” Still smiling broadly, his shoulders blocking all the light from the window, he seemed to know her and was asking an innocuous question, but she did not reconize him. Noone from this park would approach her car and knock on the window like that, either. She had always felt safe here.

“Thank you, can you leave it there? I’ll get it later!” She smiled and tried to pretend like she was on the phone so he would leave but not be offended. Still frozen between the two mindsets but quickly gaining the realization that she should absolutely not, for any reason, open that door.

His smile dropped from his face entirely, as if he had been wearing it like a mask, but he held eye contact. A flat, impatient grimace on his unshaven face. “It’s cold. I’m just trying to help.” His voice was heavy and clunky now, no longer friendly. He suddenly looked a lot less elderly, too, and she checked to make sure her door was, in fact, locked.

Where had he come from? Had she not noticed his vehicle in the parking lot? And if she did drop her glove back in the woods, he must have been there when she found the hole, right? And ran to keep up with her? Why would he not have called after her then? No. No, surely she dropped it nearby. Maybe he just found it a moment ago and walked up to her right away. Maybe he hadn’t followed her all the way from the trails. These thoughts occurred in her brain almost simultaneously, layer upon layer of confusion, and she was shivvering again.

She maintained eye contact too but said nothing. Her heartbeat was too fast. She finally started her car and slowly turned forward, hands on ten and two, body rigid. Willing herself to breathe normally. In for two, out for three. It was almost a full minute before he stood up, dropped her glove on the blacktop, and walked away. She glimpsed him a tiny bit in her periphery. Several inches taller than six feet, broad shoulders, white hair at least to his shoulders but mostly covered by a brown stocking cap. Dressed in several winter layers including a long plaid shirt that hung low beneath his coat, a Carhartt jacket, and lace up hiking boots, muddy.

She took a deep breath before putting her car in reverse to exit the parking lot. But now she had to decide where to go. Does she go home, where she will be alone with her imagination? Or does she drive to the maintenance building, or maybe find the patrolman who sits at the bank down the block?

A. Go home and bake something. Shake it off. Text your sister again, it’s all so funny. Also get your glove, because this is your favorite pair.

B. Go see if anyone is at the maintenance building and knows about either the hole or that guy walking. Also see if you can find his vehicle.

C. Find the police at the bank! Tell them everything that has happened.