Baylee

Nope, you never know what's going to happen on a country road, but if you are Geri and me, I can guarantee something happens all the time and it has an animal of some sort attached to it. So here we are - same road, a couple of miles from the Trunk Kittens discovery. This was in 2005, a couple of years before our cat days, and actually during a time that we were "between pets." Another nice day at the farm, late August, early September, but oppressively hot in the way that only southern Tennessee can be that time of year. Labor Day weekend was upon us, and though I don't remember exactly what leisurely time Geri and I had planned, the little malnourished Beagle on Champ Road changed it in a heartbeat.

We had reached the paved part of the road, crossed Dickey Bridge, going west and passed a skinny Beagle trotting along the pavement heading east. Simultaneously, I looked in the rearview mirror, Geri glanced over her shoulder, and the little Beagle looked back at the passing 4Runner without breaking stride. A few seconds down the road and Geri said, "Well, aren't you going to stop?" Never have six words ever so quickly changed the course of events. I told her that I hadn't thought about it (maybe I had, maybe I hadn't) but at the same time braked and turned the truck around. The Beagle had stopped a safe distance away, hot, thirsty, and obviously in need of a meal. All we had were the remnants of some KFC carry-out - a smidgen of mashed potatoes and gravy, maybe a piece or two of extra crispy crust, and a little dollop of cole slaw. And, yeah, half a biscuit. We exited the truck, put the container on the side of the road (you've got to understand, this is THE COUNTRY, and the side of the road is a safe place most of the time). We had a bowl in the car and some bottled water, so we filled the bowl and placed it on the ground next to the food.

After studying us for what seemed like five minutes, the Beagle eased its way over to the food, licked the plate clean in seconds, and inhaled the water. In its eyes you could see it was still hungry. To the rescue came a bag of potato chips. I took a chip and tossed it toward the Beagle and the chip disappeared with the snap of jaws. Another, then another, then another. I was finally able to edge my way closer with a chip in my outstretched hand and the Beagle garnered enough courage to come and take it. It took another and I could feel its tongue on my fingers. I thought that this was a sign of trust, so I extended my other hand to pet it. The Beagle shot into the ditch. I saw "it" was a little girl and all we could do was call to "Little Girl" for a few minutes but she had found a safe place somewhere in the tangles. We assumed it was "home."

Obviously, we were hooked. The addiction to a furry friend in distress has to be worse than crack. Or alcohol. Or double Whoppers. And the next three days would turn out to be some of the strangest animal days of our lives. (To be continued)