Golpher tells his spooky, Irish story.
Let me begin. We were at the base of mysterious mountains in Ireland. On a swing through Europe, Jinx and I traveled with furry Chip, perfect Putt, and Lucy. We were playing a sand-filled, 9-hole par 3 layout west of Wicklow Mountains and south of Dublin. The course was lush and green. With us, Lucy was only 8. The daughter of Dr. Cern and Edna Peale, Lucy was bright. She liked to laugh, liked trophy jewelry, and played great golf. She also didn’t like witches, warlocks, and goblins.
“Take aim and swing, Lucy.” Putt’s mousey whiskers twitched. Gripping an eight-iron, her long brown tail swished in green grass. “We’re watching.”
“We are.” Jinx and I waved.
“Okay.” Nearby, Lucy took her stance. And she swung.
“Whoa.” Chip groaned.
“On target,” I followed. My doggy snout, rose. Sparkling, the dimpled Nike ball skied, then, shortly, it landed, rolled, and…
“Oh, Lucy. Super.” Jinx gasped.
From one-hundred yards away and from the fairway, Lucy’s ball had soared, dropped, and spun within five feet of the cup.
“I’ll say. Hole-high, fantastic,” I started. “Girl, you’re good.”
Lucy smiled. “Thanks Golpher. I’ll…”
“Hey!” Chip pointed. “He sprang from out of that trap!”
I jumped. “What the willies?”
“Oh, no!” Putt jerked.
“Stop. You can’t have my locket!” Lucy’s eyes bulged.
“A thief!” I shook. “Get him.”
Hidden, something hairy had darted from a sand trap. A wretched sandman stirred.
(Image of fairway, players, and Maug the mole darting away with locket)
Now, we raced. But the whiskered, wriggling beast was fast. Three brown bodies ran behind a brute. They ran behind the fuzzy monster that had grabbed Lucy’s locket from a compartment of our shiny, red golf cart. We chased. But, we couldn’t cross over a narrow, wooden way named, Out-of-Bounds Bridge. Gasping for breath we looked on. As we did, that beast and his crazies dove to sand and disappeared.
Stunned, we glanced to a sign beyond the bridge: “Sand Spooks Property: Keep Out”
(Image of all chasing with raised clubs, yelling, and Maug the mole racing over a wooden bridge to sand castles nestled at base of mountains)
We went straight to the club.
“We’ve been sand-bagged. We’ve been fairway robbed. Something ugly popped from sand.”
“It had whiskers and it stole my jewelry,” cried Lucy.
We shot words to folks in the clubhouse.
“Oh no. Not here.” A heavy gentleman in a green Scottish cap shuddered. “Not Maug.”
“Maug?” I backed up.
“Lucy lost her locket,” Chip gasped. “A varmint stole it.”
“A varmint?” a lady questioned.
People shuffled. Ladies grabbed purses. Lucy bawled.
Again, “Yes,” came replies. Many nodded. “It’s Maug,” the crowd groaned.
“It’s mites and castle spooks—sand castles.” A, Mr. Langerhan shrunk to his chair. “The dreaded castles.”
My chin rose. “We read the sign. Maybe so.”
(Image of Golpher, Jinx, Chip, Putt, and Lucy in clubhouse with everyone, explaining, image of golf clubs, apparel, pro shop)
So, we explained. It didn’t take long. As we shook and shrugged, Emil Listerberk explained, too. Emil was club pro.
“I was afraid of that,” said Emil.
“Afraid of spooks?” My spotted white and brown ears, straightened.
“Golpher, Jinx, everyone. Yes, Avogadro Maug, the mole, has returned. I’m worried. We thought spooks were contained.” Emil bit his lip.
“So, tell us the story,” I followed. “We don’t know. Tell us about Maug, sand castles, and sand spooks.”
Men took deep breaths. Ladies with visors who held putters, whimpered. Eyes bulged, ears perked as all tuned in.
(Image of clubhouse and all spooked, gasping with news)