A Nose Between Two Storms

(Two actually, but where is the fun in that title?)

Good thing we hunkered down:  The pass on which this campground nestles received three inches of rain in thirty-six hours. 

The first storm rolled in with high winds and pouring rain for twenty-four hours; the Noses and I were outside for a total of fifteen minutes.  The force of the storm was aimed at Beagle’s front door; getting outside was difficult and being outside nearly impossible.  With the Noses leashed I opened the door about four inches before the wind yanked it from my hand and slammed it against Beagle’s side.  Rain came flying in, drenching everything from my bed to the stove. 

Opus refused to go out a second time.

The morning following the first storm dawned bright and sunny but the weather map showed the second storm would be hitting within three short hours.  Time to prioritize!  First off, mental health and well-being.  Thankfully terriers and I agree that mental health starts with physical exertion.  After wolfing down one piece of peanut butter toast and guzzling a cup of coffee, I leashed up the Noses and off we went.

First stop was the dog park where Opus, rather than racing around, chose to dig after the moles.  It is delightful to witness him doing what he was bred for; his single-minded intent to kill is always astonishing.  None-the-less, I stopped this earlier than usual since my need for physical exertion would not be satisfied by using my eyes alone.  

We walked down to the lake shore where I decided to let them off leash.  I had two reasons:  Other than the one night that Opus got loose in the campground, he has been excellent at returning on command; and I cannot run with them on a leash.  The trail ahead was an old road, relatively flat and I could not wait to sprint until my legs hurt and my lungs felt like bursting. 

The Noses took off, Opus quickly sticking his head down a hole and digging away.  River and I raced along the road running as fast as we could, whistling for Opus now and again.  Sure enough, after a minute or so a white blur raced by—Opus, completely horizontal to the ground, all four legs stretched out as far as they could go until they had to meet, briefly touching the ground, to keep the streak alive.  It makes me laugh every single time.

After three and a half miles we returned to Beagle where the Noses could sit outside while I took care of Priority #2:  Cleanliness.  I vacuumed out Beagle, washed the floor, then set about washing my hair and having a delightful sponge bath.  (Not enough water for a shower given my four night hunker-fest and I was sure to emerge filthier from the showers in the campground.)

Refreshed and lunched we walked another two miles simply because it was only sprinkling.

Later, sitting inside Beagle, frustrated at not being able to complete a Fidelity transaction online, I decided to head into the Fidelity office in Santa Barbara.  It was only twenty minutes away and what the heck, it was raining.  So off we went, enjoying Wurzig without Beagle on the curve-filled road down to Santa Barbara.

Usually my interactions with Fidelity representatives are excellent; I find them to be knowledgeable and well coached in customer service.   I anticipated a quick interaction.  The (very) young lady was friendly enough although she quickly exhibited a pet peeve of mine:  She was a “we” person.  As in, “How are we today?”, or “Oh, I see we are from Washington, are we enjoying our vacation?”

Practicing tolerance and adaptability, I decided to let the decimation of the English language float right on by.  I also declined to get involved in the story of my life; I was still hoping this was going to be quick and you all know my story is not a quick one.

I clearly stated my issue:  A form I should be able to submit online was not working.  She clearly thought I didn’t know what I was talking about.  She insisted that we try it online together. 

Tolerance.  Adaptability.  Fine.

Click, click, click.

        “Oh, I see we cannot do this transaction online, we will have to fill out the form, print it and mail it to the main office.” 

She begins to fill out the form online, asking me questions now and again.

“Do we want to use the amortization method or the life expectancy method?”  Tolerance.

“What address are we going to use?”  Tolerance.

         “Are we married?”

This one did me in.  Looking at her with a twinkle in my eye, and in the nicest tone possible, I replied, “I am pretty sure if you married me you would remember it.”

She looked puzzled, “I have to ask the question, it is a Federal requirement for the form.”

          “I understand that you have to ask the question, but how you ask it is…odd.”

She still looked puzzled.

          “You say, “we” when you just mean “you”; as in, how are we today?  Versus how are you today?”

At this point her eyes went from triumphant (she really is stupid!) to pity in two point five seconds.  She put on her excellent Fidelity Customer Service face and, in a sing-song voice, said, “I am sorry you don’t understand the question.  I need to know whether we are married in order to complete the form.”

Good grief.

          “I am not married.  I do not know about you.”  My entire being now devoid of twinkle. 

Suddenly being stuck alone in Beagle through another rain storm sounded heavenly.

Hours later, somewhere in the pitch-black night I woke to Beagle shaking and the continual crashing sound of a waterfall.  The second storm.  At first I could not figure out where I was and began to panic.  Realizing I was in Beagle and that she was holding up ok did little to calm my racing heart.  It was, frankly, unnerving.  The force of the water hitting the side felt like a fire hose was being aimed across Beagle, sending a jet of water from one end to the other, causing her to shake.  I was thankful Beagle, like all Airstreams, is unusually heavy.  

It lasted for hours.  Both dogs were on me; Opus between my knees and River curled as tight as she could next to my side.  I calmed down.  

We were warm and dry; I was content.

-K