Tippy, Chapter 12

By Jim Thompson
HCP columnist

Continued from last week.

The chicken and I had another meeting. I’ll call it a strategic meeting. We had certainly met through the winter, but those had been quick, tactical meetings, planning no further than one day ahead.

The chicken started talking, and I stopped her.  

“Look, we have been on the road for nearly six months. My legs are short; my feet are bleeding. I need some rest. A week or two of going nowhere. Can you arrange that?”

She thought about it. “Right before you get to Allensburg, there is a used truck dealer called Corky’s.”

“I don’t need a truck, I need rest!” I exclaimed.

“Hold on," she said. "There are some woods behind Corky’s where he puts the bodies he strips off the used trucks he is going to sell. It is way off the road and will be a good place for you to rest up.”

“Are you sure I won’t get caught there?”

“Absolutely.”

“How far is it?”
“Just a few miles.”

“A few miles! You know I don’t do better than a couple of miles a day!”

“Well, that is the best I can come up with.”

We got to the woods by mid-April (I had been keeping track of the months with my toes). And the chicken was right – it was a safe place. The chicken would bring me some scraps of food that she would find. There was plenty of rainwater collected in the old truck parts.

I had been there a few days. I was sleeping. Something awakened me. I opened my eyes and there was another beagle staring at me.

“What is your name?” she purred. No, wait a minute, she didn’t purr, she was a beagle like me.

“Tippy. What is yours?”

“Penelope.”

“Penelope? That is a dumb name for a dog.”

“I named myself. I liked the word.”

To be continued…

Jim Thompson, formerly of Marshall, is a graduate of Hillsboro High School and the University of Cincinnati. He resides in Duluth, Ga. and is a columnist for The Highland County Press.