Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 5) by Jinx Schwartz Page B
Authors: Jinx Schwartz
Ads: Link
toward it, sniffing, but sitting his ground.
Scooting ever so slightly forward on my butt, I inched toward him. He didn't move. I waited. He waited. We waited. He/she/it waited.
Several trucks and cars rumbled by, the people in them probably shocked to see a red-haired Gringa and a reddish golden retriever, both sitting on a tiny sliver of dirt on one of the most forbidding stretches of highway in the Baja. No one stopped, but I can't blame them; stopping on this road is for the insane and they could clearly see that someone had already filled that slot.
I heard a horn beep out, "Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits," and figured it was Safety returning. However, the ditty is also used by Mexicans, but never in the presence of cops because it will earn the driver a ticket. The Mexicans have changed the words to the song to charmingly say " Chinga tu madre, cabrón ": Go eff your mother, A-hole. Their insults have a recurring fixation with mothers and sexual acts, as long as it's someone else's mom.
I stood and so did the dog. One of his back legs slid over the edge, sending a cascade of rocks down the precipice and my heart cascading into my stomach. I quickly retreated, lest I send him over the edge. A horn blared and a whoosh of air hit my back close enough to scare the living hell out of me. Or something else.
"Okay, that's it! You listen to me you little turd," I commanded in my best bossy yell, "I've about had it with your lousy attitude. Now you come over here," I stabbed my finger down next to me, "and let's get off this godforsaken mountain before one of us gets killed. And I mean right now!"
Po Thang stood his ground. I hurled down the line in disgust just as Safety rolled to a stop next to me, threw the door open and yelled, "We've got about three minutes before a truck coming up behind me knocks us off this bluff. Let's go!"
In a sudden head rush, the Nyquil hit and almost knocked me off my feet. I swayed and took a step forward, only to feel my legs splay in two different directions. I wondered if I was experiencing an overdose when rocks showered down a steep bluff onto the other side of the highway, and I realized it wasn't cough medicine rocking my world, it was an earthquake.
Catching my balance I sprinted—or as close to a sprint as I could manage on moving earth, or solid dirt, for that matter—for the waiting truck. Bad as I hated leaving Po Thang out there, when it comes to self-preservation its every dog for herself. Maybe that didn't come out quite right. Anyhow, I abandoned my rescue attempt faster than you can say cluck.
Hitching myself onto the bottom step of the dually, I grabbed a handle and launched myself upward, planning to swing into the seat.
An ear-splitting whistle almost made me lose my hold, as did the sudden flurry of paws, fur, and slobber vaulting over me, into the truck's back seat.
Safety reached over, snagged my jacket collar and hauled me in as he stomped the gas and the heavy door slammed, barely avoiding breaking my ankles.
Catching my breath I turned and glared into the back seat.
Po Thang was already asleep, looking for all the world like any other dog happily taking a ride with his people.
"You whistled and he came?" I yowled. I didn't know I could yowl so good, but this seemed like an appropriate time. "I risked my life for the ungrateful little cur and all you had to do was whistle?"
Safety smiled. "Sometimes, Hetta, it's all in the lips."
Chapter 14
If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and man.—Mark Twain
I later learned the quake was only a four pointer and no damage occurred except to my nerve endings.
The epicenter was somewhere out in the Sea, sixty miles away, and the quake was felt as far as San Carlos. I also found out this was a common occurrence, not something I wanted to hear, especially since I survived a couple of years of the pesky temblors while working
Scooting ever so slightly forward on my butt, I inched toward him. He didn't move. I waited. He waited. We waited. He/she/it waited.
Several trucks and cars rumbled by, the people in them probably shocked to see a red-haired Gringa and a reddish golden retriever, both sitting on a tiny sliver of dirt on one of the most forbidding stretches of highway in the Baja. No one stopped, but I can't blame them; stopping on this road is for the insane and they could clearly see that someone had already filled that slot.
I heard a horn beep out, "Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits," and figured it was Safety returning. However, the ditty is also used by Mexicans, but never in the presence of cops because it will earn the driver a ticket. The Mexicans have changed the words to the song to charmingly say " Chinga tu madre, cabrón ": Go eff your mother, A-hole. Their insults have a recurring fixation with mothers and sexual acts, as long as it's someone else's mom.
I stood and so did the dog. One of his back legs slid over the edge, sending a cascade of rocks down the precipice and my heart cascading into my stomach. I quickly retreated, lest I send him over the edge. A horn blared and a whoosh of air hit my back close enough to scare the living hell out of me. Or something else.
"Okay, that's it! You listen to me you little turd," I commanded in my best bossy yell, "I've about had it with your lousy attitude. Now you come over here," I stabbed my finger down next to me, "and let's get off this godforsaken mountain before one of us gets killed. And I mean right now!"
Po Thang stood his ground. I hurled down the line in disgust just as Safety rolled to a stop next to me, threw the door open and yelled, "We've got about three minutes before a truck coming up behind me knocks us off this bluff. Let's go!"
In a sudden head rush, the Nyquil hit and almost knocked me off my feet. I swayed and took a step forward, only to feel my legs splay in two different directions. I wondered if I was experiencing an overdose when rocks showered down a steep bluff onto the other side of the highway, and I realized it wasn't cough medicine rocking my world, it was an earthquake.
Catching my balance I sprinted—or as close to a sprint as I could manage on moving earth, or solid dirt, for that matter—for the waiting truck. Bad as I hated leaving Po Thang out there, when it comes to self-preservation its every dog for herself. Maybe that didn't come out quite right. Anyhow, I abandoned my rescue attempt faster than you can say cluck.
Hitching myself onto the bottom step of the dually, I grabbed a handle and launched myself upward, planning to swing into the seat.
An ear-splitting whistle almost made me lose my hold, as did the sudden flurry of paws, fur, and slobber vaulting over me, into the truck's back seat.
Safety reached over, snagged my jacket collar and hauled me in as he stomped the gas and the heavy door slammed, barely avoiding breaking my ankles.
Catching my breath I turned and glared into the back seat.
Po Thang was already asleep, looking for all the world like any other dog happily taking a ride with his people.
"You whistled and he came?" I yowled. I didn't know I could yowl so good, but this seemed like an appropriate time. "I risked my life for the ungrateful little cur and all you had to do was whistle?"
Safety smiled. "Sometimes, Hetta, it's all in the lips."
Chapter 14
If you pick up a starving dog and make him prosperous he will not bite you. This is the principal difference between a dog and man.—Mark Twain
I later learned the quake was only a four pointer and no damage occurred except to my nerve endings.
The epicenter was somewhere out in the Sea, sixty miles away, and the quake was felt as far as San Carlos. I also found out this was a common occurrence, not something I wanted to hear, especially since I survived a couple of years of the pesky temblors while working
Similar Books
