Camping with a Black Lab

dog problems in camp

(Names changed due common courtesy.)

I had plans with Dan, a duck hunting buddy of mine, to tent camp the night before the opening of duck season on a piece of marsh land I’d leased. I had a big airboat, fifty decoys and a Black Labrador named, Bayou.  We’d looked around the day before in the airboat, and found lots of ducks feeding nearby.  We were set.  

At the last minute, my wife at the time decided that she would take me up on an invitation to join us that I had extended weeks before, figuring that she would turn me down.  Our relationship had been rocky recently, and this was an outreach of huge proportions from  someone who didn’t like anything about hunting, so once she accepted, my pal and I felt we had to include her and we set out to be good guys.  She didn’t want to hunt, just to enjoy camping and riding in the airboat.  We bought a big steak for supper to cook over the campfire.  Dan had his own tent, which he needed, as he weighed around 260 lbs. and his snoring was legendary.

When we arrived at the campsite and got the tents up it looked like a winner of a weekend.  It was clear and cold, a gorgeous Florida evening. There was plenty of firewood, so we built a roaring white mans’ fire and sat around on tarps drinking wine. I remember the stars. 

We went out in the marsh in the airboat and had fun looking at the gators and snakes and frogs and birds.  I shut off the airboat engine once and in minutes the marsh came alive with critter noises. Happy, we headed back to the campfire, excited about the duck hunt in the morning. 

Dan decided he’d cook the steak, and was doing fine until he tried to turn it over on the wire grille.  He stabbed it with his knife, just like they do in movies of the old West, and wanted to hold it up for us to admire.  

The meat stuck to the grille, the knife cut through the steak, and the steak fell in the fire. In his instant shame at such a fuck-up, and being a hungry fat man, Dan reached into the fire and poked the steak with his knife, finally managing to pull it out of the fire and throw it on the hood of the truck. There was lots of cussing. Finally, I think I said something like, "these things happen.”  Disapproval by the wife, for sure, disgust even.

We’d had enough scotch to see that it was salvageable. I sliced it laterally as you would fillet a mackerel, leaving the sooty, dirty side for the dog.  Soon we—I—had the relatively clean side on the grill again, and eventually we ate a rather thin, over-cooked beefsteak.  Bayou ate the other half with pleasure, dragging it around for more seasoning.

Before heading for bed, Dan decided he had some business he needed to take care of, so he headed out into the scrub to relieve himself.  Imagine my surprise when a few minutes later I looked over the dying embers and saw him squatting to shit 20 yards from the campfire, looking very content. There was his greasy face, shining in the light.  Fortunately, my wife was facing the other way.  I dared not say a word.  Clearly he’d had too much to drink.  Soon he was finished and came back into camp, where we talked about plans for the next day.

A while later my wife headed to the tent to fluff up the sleeping bags. I could see her flashlight playing around the interior of the tent, a cozy sight.  It was getting late.  I got ready for bed, putting things away.

There was no way for me to know that Bayou had discovered Dan's pile of excrement.  She’d been roaming all night.  When she found it she  did what most dogs would do, and rolled in it enthusiastically, a hat full of the finest duck hunting perfume. Then, proud of herself, she headed for the open tent and went in to visit my wife.  I heard a pleasant greeting of the dog, then a desperate shriek and a disgusted, wretching noise. It went along the lines of, “Oh, my God!  Oh, yuuch.  It’s all over everything!  Get her out of here!  Oh, Jesus Christ!  She’s rolled in shit!  She’s covered!  Oh, my God!”  The more she hollered the more excited the dog became, wagging and spinning, trying to endear herself.  The Little Woman came busting out of the tent and ran straight for the truck.  Quite naturally, she wasn’t thinking about the tent stakes or guy ropes, and the one she tripped over sent her down fast.  She was not hurt badly by the fall, but she’d had the wind knocked out of her, and the more she flailed the more animated the shit-covered dog became in her attentions.  Grabbing the dog did not seem to be the best plan, so I stood by helplessly, hollering commands.

It took some time to get things under control, which involved me giving up my spare hunting clothes and the jacket I was wearing.  All the sport was gone from my wife. Gingerly, I got a rope on the dog and tied her to a tree. Fetching ducks in the marsh would clean her up in the morning. 

I don’t know if it was the dog shit or the fall that made the Little Woman puke.  Poor thing was very sick.  She made it clear that I was  to drive her home, more than two hours away.  She was not amenable to sleeping in the truck, and kept saying that she wanted to get the dog shit out of her hair, which did seem reasonable. 

Once we were on our way and the truck heater was on, the need for cleanliness became even more apparent.  She was sick a few times on the side of the road.  

Dan was sound asleep when I got back to camp in the wee hours, snoring mightily in his tent.  I dozed in the truck, and in a moment of clarity just before I fell asleep I realized what a bad husband I was.