girl scouts

The girl scouts and I had caught the dog that had appeared from nowhere by the bushes, dragging the wet and smell of bog with it. We'd improvised a leash out of string and bungee cords. We'd called dispatch to report a dog running loose in the camp. A dozen tiny girl scouts had already made it through three screaming fits. And now I was sitting on the hill being eaten by mosquitoes, dog splayed on its side, tail registering high wags, gnawing at the leash every few minutes while several girl scouts casually asked me what a "period" was. I said it was the end of a sentence and left it at that though I was tempted, sorely tempted, to say: "The end of a sentence, the beginning of life on death row." About ten minutes before the camp fire sing-a-long time, a squad car finally rolled up to release us of the dog.

The officer, an aging cop white hair still waving triumphantly across the top of his head, got out. He asked a passing 40-something-year-old scout mom if she was Katie Wilson. No, she shook her head.

"I'm Katie Wilson," I said, raising my hand like a kid in school.

"Oh," he said, looking me over, then he asked, "Is there an adult in charge here?"

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In his defense, I did look like this:



Yes. The hat, does in fact, have ears. And ribbons.

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I spent the afternoon hanging out with girl scouts at their camp, teaching outdoor cooking with C. and C's friend. I smell of smoke and I'm covered in mosquito bites. I can still hear the darn things humming in my ears. I'm going to try every remedy from organic/made by hand/made with love (J trim trim) salve to toothpaste.