A few years ago in October, the weatherman promised the season’s first cold front that was racing its way south from Oklahoma and, if we timed it right, would dip deep into South Texas just as we left work that Friday. The forecasted low of 50 degrees would be perfect for tent camping in Choke Canyon State Park, halfway between San Antonio in the Hill Country and Corpus Christi on the Gulf Coast.
After work, we loaded up our camping supplies and our two dogs, Gypsy, a 40-lb. blonde mutt, and Hollis, a 10-lb. Shih Tsu, and hit the road.
Only the temperature didn’t drop.
By the time we pulled into our non-electric camping spot after dark, it was still 95 degrees. We sighed and dragged everything out of the car all the while wiping sweat out of our eyes and slapping away mosquitoes.
Finally, the tent was up, and our air mattresses and sleeping bags were laid out. That’s when we realized the wire dog kennel we had brought for both dogs to share wouldn’t fit inside the tent. We knew they would never settle down for the night if we left them in the kennel outside, so they’d have to sleep inside with us. The dogs panted and tried to get comfortable. They walked on top of us. They whined. We sweated and tried to get comfortable. We whined. That’s when the cicadas started singing their shrill songs. We slapped more mosquitoes.
“What if we open the tent flap to get whatever breeze we can? We can tie the dogs inside, so they don’t run off,” my husband said.
“Sounds like a good plan.” I quickly grabbed a flashlight and searched for something inside the tent to secure their leashes. We had brought in a duffle bag with our clothes and shoes, so I tied each dog’s leash to it, one on each side.
“Man, it’s hot.” My husband took off his t-shirt and laid back down in only his boxer shorts. Comfort won out over modesty, so I decided to strip down to just my bra and panties, reasoning that if we didn’t turn on the flashlight again, no one camped near us could see me.
Finally, the dogs settled. Gypsy sat in the dirt just outside the tent flap, her leash securely tied to one side of the duffle bag while Hollis was tied to the other. He had finally curled up at my feet atop the air mattress and was sound asleep. Thankfully, the cicadas had also quieted for the night.
Eventually, I drifted off to sleep only to be awakened a couple of hours later by my husband shouting: “Gypsy, noooooo!”
Gypsy had spied a white-tailed deer and had given chase but, because her leash was tied to the duffle bag, she dragged it and subsequently Hollis, who was just along for the ride. I grabbed a flashlight to try and help but quickly realized nearby campers could see me in my bra and panties! I turned it off.
My husband had only one chance to stop the fast-moving entourage, so he dove and made a semi-tackle of Hollis and the duffle bag in the dirt and hauled Gypsy back to our camp.
As he quickly zipped up the tent flap and fell onto his sleeping bag, he muttered: “Cold front, my foot.”