Have you ever been camping?
Growing up, I went camping with my family every summer, sometimes bringing a friend. Here’s a story about one of the more remarkable times.
***
My best friend and I sat on the sandy shore of the lake. It was hot, but we were in the reprive of a tree’s shadow looming over us. We were eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; I just ate mine linearly, while my friend started by consuming the crust first to leave the softer, tastier inside part for last.
Or she would have. She made the mistake of setting it down on her plate to look at something or converse with me — and in that moment, a dark shape lunged forward and snatched the sandwich, running off before she even realized what happened.
“Oh no! Bo! My sandwich! I just finished eating all the crust, too,” she pouted. Bo was my uncle and aunt’s dog, the perpetrator of this particular crime. He was already far off in the distance. I saw my aunt and uncle trying to get him to drop it, but he kept running off as soon as anyone approached him. Eventually he finished gulping it down, and that was that.
“You can have half my sandwich. I ate too much fruit anyway,” I said, ripping the sandwich in half where I hadn’t bitten it yet.
“Are you sure? Thank you.” She took the offering. “I can’t believe him though! He took the good part!”
I had to laugh, even as I sympathized with her. “He was so fast, I barely saw him. He was just a blur. He was probably waiting for the right moment to snatch it.”
“Yeah. What a bad dog. RIP sandwich.”
***The End.***
Leave a comment