Between Then & Now || Currently Editing for Wattys 2022

17.

The sun is high above the ground the next time I decide to stop, and beads of sweat run down my back underneath the thin t-shirt I had thrown on that morning. I had gone outside again this morning, letting Thelma out to use the restroom, and part of me was hoping the deer would come back. But it didn't and I packed up the van, disappointed. After that, I drove for another few hours before stopping at some campground in Tennessee. If it weren't for the GPS, I would have thought we somehow ended up in the exact same spot as the night before, the van surrounded by trees and trees and trees. I had made sure to loop the band of a camera around my neck, the blocky piece of technology hanging on my chest, before setting up camp for the day. My calves are tight from constantly pressing on the gas pedal, and I figured it was time to stop. To just stop running and finally smell the roses.

Or whatever they say.

Thelma barks at something and I look up, eyes wide. But it's just a squirrel that has stopped a few feet in front of her, and I laugh.

"Oh, yeah?" I chuckle, laying on the yoga mat I had brought outside on the grass in front of the van. The blades tickle my fingers as I smooth it and take a seat on the ground. "Go get 'im, Thelma girl."

She looks back at me, her tongue hanging out of her mouth carelessly, then turns back to the squirrel. One of her paws lifts off the ground, and she tentatively takes a step forward, her body crouched low to the ground. The squirrel doesn't move, staring her down with an acorn stuck between its teeth. They both stand still, and I raise an eyebrow.

Seems like an even battle.

The tension is thick as my eyes bounce between the two, back and forth, back and forth, and, suddenly, I lift my camera up, hitting record as the shot pans onto Thelma. Within seconds of the video beginning, she pounces up, sending the squirrel sprinting up a tree a little into the foliage beyond the van. She chases it, but the squirrel is already far up the tree, beyond sight. Her barks follow it up the bark, but she quickly realizes the futility of her efforts and looks back at me, dumbfounded. I watch her through the recording screen and then look up at her over my camera.

"Did he beat you?" She blinks at me as I pout over at her and then puts her head down, dejectedly trotting back over to my yoga mat and plopping down in the grass beside it. I hit the "end" button on the camera and let it fall to my chest again, my hands tracing her soft, now slightly dirty fur. "Can't win 'em all, lady, I'm sorry."

The grass in front of her nose bends as her exasperated puff.

I laugh at her and look up. The drive up to Tennessee was extreme windy, and I don't think I've ever seen so many cliffs and trees. There were even these ramps on the side of the highway whenever I went down a steep hill. If I had to guess, they were probably for if your brakes went out on the hill.

That would be terrifying.

I shudder just thinking about it, and look back down at Thelma. She's rolling around on the grass, using the texture of the ground to itch her back, and I try not to think about having to give her another bath. My gaze moves back up to the trees. In between two tall oaks, there's a streak of red, and I follow it with my eyes. When it finally stops, I see that it's a redbird that's landed one of the branches of a tree. It tweets, singing some song, and, in the distance, I swear another bird replies.

The leaves of the trees are painted in a million shades of green, some tree's bark peeling and other's the standard bark everyone thinks of. There's a bit of bushes at the feet of the trees, and they almost look like slippers for giants. Little purple and white flowers lie in the sea of green, and I take in a deep breath.

On the ground, Thelma barks, and I search around for the squirrel. As soon as I find it, she's shooting away, and I laugh, laying back on the yoga mat to just look at the sky.