My Lazy Day Nap

Mama and I were driving somewhere. Actually, Mama was driving. I was along for the ride.

What a ride it was. We started out on some unknown mountain road with the ocean to our right, far below us. It reminded me of the California Coast Highway--breathtaking views, water crashing on rocky outcroppings, horsetail waterfalls from cliffs pooling in hidden coves, cows moseying alongside the cars, brilliantly colored flowers swaying in the constant breeze as it blew over everything. It was beautiful.  The beauty turned potentially deadly in the blink of an eye.

I'm not quite sure how she did it, but as we turned a sharp corner high up on a mountain she drove us over the water, which, as dreams can do, turned from the ocean into a lake in the blink of an eye. As we left the cliff road and hung over the air I wondered how long it would be before we would plummet to a watery death.

However, we did not plummet, and unlike Wiley E. Coyote, we did not peddle air in one place either. We moved forward, but I was too nervous to enjoy the flight. When she finally banked left I was relieved to see a road.

Until I realized the road was a work zone--and it was not your normal deserted work zone with a scattering of dormant equipment. It was a heavily populated work zone that was actively being worked. I hoped Mama would be able to safely land.

We came in so low for the landing, I could reach out and touch the tops of the yellow work trucks. I could, but I didn't. My hands were preoccupied with clutching the dash. The queasy factor in my stomach rose with every foot we descended. I closed my eyes tightly seconds before we touched down. I wasn't sure we would clear the last truck.

When I opened my eyes, as if by magic, I was transported back to the beach. Thus time it was the sugar-white sand  beaches of my growing-up years in northwest Florida.

The beach was deserted and I was shooting a you tube video featuring a bald, bare-chested dark-skinned man who resembled Mr. Clean.  Earring and all.

He was lying on his stomach on a vividly colored Mexican blanket. His muscled upper torso visible as he raised up on his elbows and forearms. His  trusty black lab, Buddy, was curled next to him. I called, "Cut!" Then the voice-over said, "They came from everywhere," and by movie-dream magic, scores of dogs bounded from the crashing waves and descended upon the now blanket-filled beach. The dogs represented every breed, color, and disposition.

A few romped and played as they splashed to the beach.  Eventually each highly trained dog made his or her way to their appointed blanket.

All except one.

I awoke from my nap calling in vain to the errant dog.

I'll give you one guess what his name was...