Chapter 7: Wool Fight

    "A wee pee for Mr. Peewee?" I laugh to myself from the top edge of what looks like, in the waning quarter moonlight, a large oval mound.

"Chuffle," is the snorting answer I get from across the plateau behind me.

     I'd followed the glittering trail across the B709 and over a pasture to a steep rise, arriving at the top after slogging up a barely discernible switchback path. 

     Suddenly famished, I sat on the southeastern edge of the mound and polished off the cranachan the barkeep had pushed into a pocket of my pack during my hasty exit from Eskdalemuir. The perfect mix of crunchy oatmeal, tart strawberries, and rich cream was just the thing, but it also triggered my gastrocolic reflex. 

     I'd stood and whipped it out in hopes that a good urination would relieve the urge to shit on the open top of the exposed hill. 

     Startled by the guttural response to my rhetorical pun, I spun around to an even more startling vision. Staring straight at me from across the plateau was a huge red-shagged monster with sharp horns. Before I could even gasp the words woolly mammoth, it charged.

     "Hey!" I scream, raising my arms to make myself look bigger as if this beast were as blind as a black bear. 

"Bye!" I yell back, fleeing straight down the slope as it lumbers after me.

"Andale, andale," I pant in desperation, whipping the maroon sash from the pack strap and flinging it off to the side.