11

Wildlife and Wet Wipes

Lilly pulled the last wet wipe out of its handy blue package and washed down her hands. The results were unsatisfactory. She plopped the hand wipe at her feet in the pile that had developed as she cleansed the residual honey from her shoes and attempted the wilderness version of a thorough shower. She upended her small bottle of hand sanitizer in vain. Only a tiny drip plopped into her hand. Her shoes were still sticky, despite the creek and her best efforts. Only approximately two thirds of her body had been cleansed and even then, she smelled strongly of sweat, rubbing alcohol, and honey. Like some kind of nightmare pancake.

Strudel zipped around the “out” and snatched up a used wet wipe. “Hey, unhand that!” Lilly’s stern command was ignored as Strudel bounded off a stump, let the wet wipe flutter to the ground, and zoomed back for another. Tristian’s stern face appeared in Lilly’s mind as he lectured the students about littering, even accidentally, within God’s vast and glorious wilderness.

She slipped back into her clothes and followed the trail of wet wipes her ill-behaved pet had scattered abroad, plucking them from the ground and forming a wad of baby powder-scented trash that contained not a few pine needles and scampering ants. Fifteen wipes later, Lilly set the mess down near the out and straightened, thankful to be finished. She stretched, allowing the morning sun to warm her face as her muscles oh, so slowly relaxed under the duel ministrations of birdsong and wilderness beauty. Lilly pulled her hair into something resembling a ponytail and glanced behind her. The pile of used wipes was gone.

In its place was Strudel, prancing off with a huge wad of wet wipes, his tail wagging with pride.

Lilly lunged for the little dog. He skipped to the side and rocketed down the path, scattering wipes wherever he bounded. This was taking forever. If Lilly didn’t hurry, she would miss breakfast as she had dinner the night before. She clutched the remaining wipes tighter and hurtled after Strudel. Where was he?

Strudel zipped around the corner and charged back toward her. No wet wipes in his mouth, but she could see the whites of his eyes from underneath his floppy bangs as he tripped over a log and fell, skidding down the path on his face before coming to a stop behind the “out.” Poor baby, was he limping?

She ran toward him, but instead of rushing to her arms, he cowered behind the primitive toilet. Strange, her wrath had never before inspired such a great respect. Perhaps the small hound had finally realized that she meant business where littering was concerned.

Lilly proceeded around the corner. Someone had to pick up all those wipes. But something had beaten her to them. A round furry rump filled the trail. A deep snurffle and the sound of chewing stopped Lilly cold.

A bear, a real live bear, stood in the trail determinedly chewing on one of Strudels discarded wipes.