JD and Marilyn London are the managers of Swaying Palms RV Resort and, in RV Having Fun, the dynamic duo have two entirely different points of views of campground management. You can also catch this couple in book two of the Wanderlust Mysteries, THE LAST RESORT. I hope you find them as entertaining and likeable as I did in their creation.
JD hated November. November, which ended the campground’s quiet season, pricked his attitude. It fed his paranoia. In November, he wondered who would piss him off this winter.
What camper would prove JD unprepared when they towed their quirks along for a sea island vacation? Who would forfeit family members, on purpose, like abandoned, drippy-tongue dogs?
And the gossip. JD was so sick of the busybodies whose tales spread throughout the campground faster than kindergarten measles. JD and Marilyn London were managers at Swaying Palms RV resort. JD against his will. Just so happened JD loved his wife Marilyn so
much and, therefore had no alternative except to take on the position of manager. The London’s attire always complimented their fifty-year-old teenage figures. JD with his cut-off jeans and tank tops exposing tanned and muscled biceps, silver-black hair worn just over his neckline and a
face weathered by winter tourists. Marilyn, always fashionable wearing those snug-fitting flowery and sleeveless sun dresses with her shoulder-length sun-bleached hair making her look like a California Babe. JD and Marilyn, and their long haired dog, a Cocker named Rocky attached by a studded short-leash harness, visited each campsite: daily.
Deserted canines ran rampant. They excreted their will on strand sand, on campground roads, sometimes on campers’ doorsteps. All season those loose dogs tipped over and investigated the inside bottom of campsite garbage cans. Pawing through the culinary leftovers, they scattered their own leftovers for other midnight foragers: possums, raccoons, skunks.
Always one beach mound beyond the County Catcher, those strays became panting pests.
They roamed the dunes. They begged in moonlight, in sunlight, on dog days and humane days, until some accepted adoption and wagged their sand-flea-ridden tail home with a new family.
One loose dog, “Poncho,” offered a different challenge. Not a stray, this pocket-size chocolate colored Chihuahua was a regular customer. He brought his old owners along on most seasonal weekends; they reserved a campsite across the paved entrance road, opposite the store office.
While his owners darkened daily on the beach, Poncho didn’t wander, fight or bite. He hid in the shaded sand under his pop-up camper. Stretched out with his pointed chin rested on crossed paws, his eager eyes flicked back and forth measuring the distance between his campsite boundary and the campground main road. He waited. He watched. He monitored those scantyclad
sun bathers and sea bathers who barefooted their day-stay paraphernalia to and from the beach. If their foot flop distance violated Poncho’s predetermined perimeter, that chocolate
streak darted from ambush mouthing yippie yaps and flashing ankle-high, pesky teeth.
Poncho’s gambit startled those shoeless “intruders” into a “Get! Get!” yelling, towel snapping, lawn chair jabbing dance. Someone named the Chihuahua’s ruse “Poncho’s Gotcha.”
After Poncho “Gotcha,” he wagged his tail, wore a detectable smile, then swaggered back to the shady sanctuary under his pop-up camper where he rearranged the sand in his dug out
hideaway and settled down, ready for another ambush.
Of course, customer complaints prompted frequent conversations with Poncho’s owners in the crowded forty-foot-square store-office. JD’s chats with either husband or wife resembled recorded echoes... “Harness your dog.” JD would point at the sign: “No Loose Pets.”
“He forgot his leash.”
JD would point at the pet supplies hanging on pegs near the window air conditioner.
“Have him buy another.”
“He forgot his wallet.”
JD’s finger tired, so Marilyn would chime in. “Use rope.”
“Nope. Rope gives him a rash.” Poncho’s owner nodded at the crab bait in the meat freezer. ”He likes them.”
“Turkey necks?” Marilyn asked.
“Yeah. He’ll spit out the bones.”
Now aware of the road toll, to assure uninterrupted passage along the entrance road to the Atlantic beach, the London’s regular customers purchased the frozen turkey necks. Their first year first year turkey neck sales bought a new van for their meat distributor. The London’s profit
increased, so why should they defang a harmless scary dog that made them money? Why? Because new customers screamed “Do something about that dog!”