["The scene shifts to the north country"]
While heading for the hills, to be miles away from a rabid snail, I reached for my cell. A distress call was in order. I hit speed dial, FAVS #4, shifting gears and steering my '64 Volkswagen at the same time. I let the phone ring eight times. My friend and oft-times ally in battles against crime - and in this case, slime - finally picked up.
"I'm here," said a familiar voice.
"Emergency," I said. "How soon can you get to London?"
"I'm on vacation," said my friend. "And just pushing Goldie's canoe into the water. This better be good."
"Rabid snail," I said, "with a heart full of evil intent. It just chased me from my workshop... and I've got birdhouse orders due by Friday."
"I'll think about it, eh," he said.
I didn't foresee the following: He simply tossed his open cell onto a cushioned deck chair. However, I heard a swish in the air (Double back flip? Double forward flip with a half-twist? I'm not sure.) and the loud splash of water.
["Maybe I'll help. And maybe I won't"]
He'll call back, I thought. But what can I say to entice him to make the four-hour drive from Goldie Hawn's cottage on Lake Rosseau?
["He loves swimming in the clear waters of our northern lakes"]
Stay tuned.
Photos by GH
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