A Varmint Bit Your Mama

 A Varmint Bit Your Mama

Pepper Richardson

597 words

 

Sometime in the spring of 2010, Mom and I were camping in Southern Arizona. We'd pulled into a campsite near Sierra Vista, set up camp, started supper, and settled in. It had been a long day, so we both turned in early.

The next morning, while I waited for coffee water to boil, I heard Mom moaning from the back of the camper. I went back to check on her. She was sitting up, rubbing the side of her neck.

"What's wrong with my neck?" she asked. "Take a look."

When she moved her hand, I saw it.

There was a disgusting, penny-sized bite on the side of her neck. The thing was swollen, ringed in red and black, and oozing pus.

I took one look and said, "No. uh-uh. Not happening. That is disgusting."

We packed up camp and headed into Sierra Vista. One look at Mom's neck got us ushered through the urgent care clinic faster than any paperwork ever could.

Mom stretched out on the exam table. A few minutes later, the door opened and in walked the most ancient cowboy doctor I'd ever seen.

His legs bowed out in a perfect O-shape. He walked like John Wayne after a hard ride across the desert.

Without introducing himself, he went straight to Mom's neck.

Up close, I noticed the faded boot-cut jeans beneath his lab coat and the scuffed leather boots on his feet.

His hands looked like they'd spent more years fixing fence than writing prescriptions.

Without saying much, he gently turned Mom's head so he could examine the bite. He adjusted his glasses, bent over, and got his face so close to it I thought he might kiss the thing.

Then he motioned me over.

I reluctantly obeyed.

Standing beside him, I looked down at Mom from what I considered a safe distance.

The doctor pointed to the bite and said, "Let's take a closer look."

I said, "No. uh-uh. Not happening. It is disgusting."

He slowly turned and gave me a look that could stop a clock.

"You ain't gonna help her?" he asked.

It wasn't courage that got me moving. It was guilt.

I couldn't back down after that.

The two of us bent over at the same time. We were just inches from the bite, and it was somehow even nastier up close. While we studied that ugly thing on Mom's neck, we both turned our heads at the same moment and ended up nose to nose.

I could see every sun wrinkle, every age spot, every mile he'd traveled on that weathered face.

Then he asked, "You want to know what's wrong?"

I whispered, "Yes."

He looked me dead in the eye and, in a voice so serious it sounded almost sacred, said:

"A varmint bit your mama."

I gasped.

"A varmint bit my mama?"

Mom was lying there shaking from trying not to laugh.

The second she heard him say, "A varmint bit your mama," she completely lost it.

She laughed so hard the exam table rattled.

The doctor never cracked a smile.

This was serious business.

He had me clean the wound and apply antibiotic ointment while he explained that the Arizona desert was full of nasty bitin' varmints.

Once his work was done, he tipped his head, turned around, and sauntered out of the room.

To this day, I don't know exactly what kind of varmint bit my mama.

I don't remember the clinic's name, either.

But I'll never forget that old doc and his diagnosis.