My name is Euphoria McMillan and thank you for dropping by to hear my travelogue on the most exciting hunting expedition I've ever been on. Just thinking about what occurred still gives me grins and Goosebumps!

It started last fall near Arcadia, Florida, when my older sister Bess and me booked the services of local guide Gunter Enright. He had an excellent reputation for taking people where they never expected, using his vast knowledge of Central Florida to improvise and give every customer a unique experience they'll long remember. We told him we wanted to bag some cottontail deer.

Within the first hour in the backwoods, Gunter struck a silent smile and pointed to the ground. "Deer tracks," he whispered. We went into stealth mode, moving along the tracks without as much as rustling a trig. But then, Gunter disappeared before our eyes. A loud splash and Gunter pleading to "help me out" followed this! Bess offered him a hand, but she soon lost her balance. And I latched onto Bess's other hand just quick enough so the both of us could be pulled into the pond into which Gunter had stumbled.

Within minutes, we all emerged from the pond dripping wet. "I hope my wool sweater doesn't shrink from this wetness," Bess moaned. But that was the least of our problems. We had all begun to shrink. Our wet clothes soon hung on us like damp dishrags. Worse, we noticed our features changing, going from adult to teen to decidedly childish. When it stopped, I estimated that I had gone from age 41 back to age 7. Bess, who was in the water longer, had gone from age 46 to age 5. Gunter, who declined to state his true age, now looked like a scrawny 8-year-old boy.

"Incompetenenent," I stammered, surprised that I could no longer pronounce big words except as a tongue-tied child. "You led us into the Fountain of Youth by mistake! Our expedition is ruined. I want our money back!" I added as I stamped my foot, curled my upper lip, and pouted. But Gunter promised to make it up to us. But first, we would get clothing that fit. He suggested we travel light, discarding all but what was necessary. For Gunter, that was his jockey shorts, although he did keep his backpack. For Bess, her Vanity Fair control panty, although she had nothing left that needed controlling. Me? I kept my panties and bra. After all the exercises and special creams I purchased as a teen just to get to 38C, I was not ready to fling it away just yet.

Bess and I skulked after Gunter, as he made very determined moves through the brush and trees. Us two girls kept whining, "Are we there yet?" We finally came upon a clearing. One paved with asphalt, and covered by SUVs. "Our destination," Gunter grinned as he pointed to a glowing edifice that stood above all else. It was a lighted sign that read Wal-Mart!

Although Bess and I hesitated, Gunter pushed us to enter the store. A wide-eyed elderly gent rushed to meet us. "We're caught! Now how are we going to explain how we look, or for that matter, where are parents are," I whined. But the man merely took our hands and shook them furiously. "Greetings! Welcome! And thank you for shopping Wal-Mart!" he gushed. "He doesn't recognize us as children wearing oversize adult underwear," I noted with surprise. "Of course he doesn't. He's a bit senile. Part of the job description," Gunter dryly noted. And the elderly man let us pass.

But other store workers noticed us kids hanging onto our adult undies for dear life. "Get them," one sales associate screamed. A security person joined him. We scampered up Aisle 3 past the toasters and blenders, cut across a lateral walk to Aisle 8, past artificial flowers and Taiwan-made figurines, up Aisle 9 through greeting cards and birthday paper, back down Aisle 10, over counters loaded with men's jogging suits, and under racks of men's spring jackets. We were putting miles between our pursuers, and us and I had to admit that the adrenaline was flowing, and I was excited and giddy by it all.

"The holy grail," Gunter noted as he showed we had arrived in children's underwear. We furiously ripped open packages, trying on panties, shirts, camisoles, socks, until we found what we liked, and that fitted. "Get those brats," we heard the sales associate scream in the distance. He had three other sales associates and a janitor with him in our pursuit. "Quick," Gunter said, motioning us to follow him as we scaled a display of boy's school shirts to the top of a glass display case. We quickly scampered along the top of the display and those attached, knocking onto our pursuers cardboard ads for credit cards, mannequins of children in winter duds, and plaster busts covered with the latest style bras. We reached a dead end, but Gunter dug into his backpack, producing a grappling hook and length of nylon rope. Catching a light fixture, he encouraged us to swing away with him Tarzan-style. Just barely missing having my foot snared by a Wal-Mart worker, we followed a magnificent arc over a broad area encompassing shoes and hardware, landing atop another high display.

What a workout! And great fun! Better than anything at Bally's, or even Disney Quest!

On reaching the floor, Gunter grinned broadly. "I promised you hunting, and you shall hunt the strangest of game." He pointed at our quarry. As we were in the toy department, we grabbed squirt guns, popguns, laser pistols, Star Wars weapons, and whatever was available. And we pounced. Our quarry put up a fight, but we vanquished him. No, we didn't get any cottontail deer, but we got our limit in cotton-stuffed dog! The Wal-Mart staffers were not pleased with our foray into the stuffed toy animal area and tried to take our kill from us. But we yelled back, "We caught it! It's ours!" And we ran off with it.

Which is why I brought that battered stuffed toy dog to Show-and-Tell today. As proof! And I'd like to thank all the readers of the capst web site who took time off today to visit the St. Elmo's Second Grade for my thrilling and most enjoyable tale of daring do and stalking big game in the Florida backwoods. And if you don't believe me, go to Room 101 (that's the Kindergarten) and ask for my now little sister Bess. She'll verify my tale. Honest!

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