The day was pure. Severe freezing temperatures caused my nostrils to cling together like Velcro. We owned a 1967 Evinrude snowmobile; blue and white with a glaring orange seat and heavy frame. The Evinrude was mine to drive and on this January Sunday, my mother decided we should go riding down the middle of the Maysville Road on that shy old machine. After all, we couldn’t get stuck on a glaring strip of ice and the Evinrude would really soar without the restraint of the snow in the fields. Mom insisted on driving and when I carefully mentioned that it was against the law to ride a snowmobile on the open road, she responded that this particular law did not apply to secondary roads. I chose not to argue with her; after all, I had always wondered just how fast my beloved sled could go.
By the time we remembered the tiny and mighty car-chasing beagle en route, it was too late. He shot out from behind a wall of snow, his white feet clinging to the slippery surface of the roadway as he thrust himself toward the back of the sled; the very place I was sitting. Mom and I were wearing one-piece, yellow snowmobile suits, green helmets with tinted drop-down shields, heavy black snowmobile boots and brown padded mittens. My own snowmobile suit had seen its better days! It was riddled with patches and tears but it was comfortable and warm. I hugged my mom tight.
The dog moved so fast that he actually passed us! When it became clear to him that he had the upper hand, he celebrated by latching on to my left upper shoulder with his healthy, ambitious teeth. His bite did not penetrate either the insulation of the suit or my skin.
He tired of us quickly, and with one final snarl and guttural bark, he was gone. We pulled into the yard of a farmer we knew well and Mom called my father, asking him to come and rescue us. “Bring the trailer for the sled. That nasty dog tried to bite Belinda.” Of course, when Dad heard that, he insisted on stopping on the way home to speak with the dog owner.
That beagle was sly! He trotted along behind his owner, tail swiping at the wind. He danced a jig all around my father’s feet and rolled around on his back; plump belly begging to be rubbed. In summary, the owner could not fathom this little creature snapping off a piece of my clearly already damaged suit. My mother relayed the story to the owner but he was adamant that this dog was guilty of chasing cars but he would never attempt to bite.
The dog finally sat down and yawned. Dad and the dog’s owner were so deep in conversation about our marvelous Evinrude, that they did not notice the dog’s open mouth and the miniscule pieces of cotton-like lining that were intricately entwined in his teeth. At last, we drove away; the heavy sled bouncing freely behind us. Dad glanced in his rearview mirror. “Look!” he said. “The beagle is baying! What a cute little guy!”
I looked over my shoulder and there he was, ears flung back, mouth slightly open, eyes cast toward the sky. Baying? I think not. That beagle was laughing.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
