My Worst (Funny) Camping Experience

When I was ten years old, my parents decided that my younger brother and I were old enough to sleep in our own tent. Now, normally we slept in a house, in separate bedrooms, but the weather was nice-it must have been summertime-and my parents thought it would be great fun to go on a family campout somewhere in Missouri, not too far from our Kansas City suburb. Mom and Dad still liked camping in those days, so we packed two tents into the trunk of my mom's silver 1986 Volkswagen Jetta (the car that would later become my first car) and drove out to this secluded campground in Missouri.

The campground was pleasant enough-lots of trees, maybe even a lake. We didn't fish or swim, though. (I'd been fishing before, but had never enjoyed it. I hooked a fish in the eye my first time out, and felt so bad for the little guy. He'd obviously run into my hook by accident; he probably wasn't even hungry!)

We pitched our tents. The kids' tent was very easy to assemble; it was one of those little dome tents-- you push the long plastic rods through the holes and then you pound some stakes into the ground so the tent doesn't blow away. Easy. We unrolled our flannel-lined, grown-up sleeping bags (I was too mature for my babyish Smurfs sleeping bag by this time), and enjoyed zipping and unzipping our tent's door and window flaps. I believe my brother and I got our own flashlight-a cool, fluorescent one that had this emergency flashing-yellow-light feature that my brother liked to abuse.

My parents' tent was an ancient, army-green, mildewy monstrosity. They must have bought it for their honeymoon in 1975 (or maybe my dad bought it in college? Who knows). That thing had metal poles coming out of it all over the place! I couldn't assemble that stinky tent to save my life. There's just no way. Dad, however, was an engineer-he put it together without the damn instructions! And then they inflated the nice air mattress in their tent, 'cause grown-ups are mean like that.

I have no idea what we ate for supper, but I know we didn't roast weenies or marshmallows. Did I mention that my puppy, Truffles, was camping with us? (We didn't eat him, either!) Truffles was a sweet little dog-black and brown, with pointy ears, and very fond of his own voice.

Guess which tent Truffles got to sleep in? Duh! Technically, Truffles was "my" dog, so I wanted him to sleep next to me. We changed into our pajamas and zipped ourselves into our thick sleeping bags and most likely got in trouble for giggling too much and not turning off our flashlight. (The good--and bad--thing about tents is that the people in the tent next to yours can still hear you talking and can see the light inside your tent even when the doors are closed.)

It wasn't our fault that Truffles kept sniffing around the tent, refusing to go to sleep. My brand-new white Reebok sneakers were in the corner, and Truffles thought those shoes smelled exceptionally good. So good that he squatted over the shoelaces and peed on them! I let out a horrific shriek.

"What happened?" came my mom's voice from the other tent.

"Truffles peed on my shoes!" I whined.

"Oh, gall! Well...uh...just...be quiet and go to sleep."

I whimpered. "It smells like pee in here!"

"Didn't you take him out before you went to bed?" Dad grumbled.

"The pee's getting on my sleeping bag!" my brother gasped.

"Shh! Wipe it up," Mom hissed.

"EWWW!"

"Both of you, be quiet and go to sleep!"

It was at this point that Truffles started howling.

I put his leash on, slipped on my pee-soaked Reeboks, tied the wet laces, and walked Truffles around the scary dark campground (in my nightgown! Why'd my parents let me do that?!) until he shut up.

When we returned to the tent, my brother was asleep. Truffles and I snuggled in my sleeping bag, and everything seemed all right...until another dog started howling.

Truffles sprang out of my arms, barking excitedly.

"I'm over here! In the little blue tent!" Truffles called out.

"I'm tied up outside the camper by the lake!" the other dog responded.

"I'm hungry," Truffles barked.

"I'm bored," the other dog complained.

Back and forth they yipped while my brother slept.

"Maria," Dad growled from the other tent, "you've gotta stop his barking!"

"I'm trying," I whined. At least the other dog's owner was trying.

The barking finally stopped. Truffles and I fell into a fitful sleep as my pee-soaked Reeboks slowly dried.

We packed up and headed home the next morning-a day early. My Reeboks never smelled new again, and Truffles never stepped foot inside another tent.

The moral of the story is: Never take your puppy and brand-new sneakers camping!