This year, we decided to try something new and take our dog on vacation. We always seem to miss him when we’re gone, plus our usual pet sitter was going to be out of town. So we scoured the rental listings for the handful that accept pets and settled on one mediocre place near but not quite on the beach, in walking distance to essentially nothing.
Usually, we pack our bags while Jack mopes, knowing we are going somewhere without him. This time, he was allowed to pile into the back seat with our daughter, who was overjoyed to have him at her side. Our 6.5 hour drive down to South Carolina took us about 8 hours, with frequent stops to allow Jack to pee in multiple places along the eastern seaboard.
Jack seemed to get nervous for about the last hour of our trip when we noticed a disgusting aroma coming from his hinterlands; one usually reserved for vet techs and groomers. Our daughter was a little less thrilled to have him at her side, but we finally made it to our acceptable rental unit. Jack was not excited to be somewhere new and spent the bulk of our first night pacing the floor, or across my chest, his nervous stomach growling loudly.
Early, oh so early this morning, I took Jack out of the rental unit to give him his first sight of the ocean. He clamored to get to the top of the dunes, and the second he laid eyes on the churning surf, he made an immediate U-turn, attempting to get right off the beach. I forced him to go forward, and we hugged the dunes for a block or two until I finally gave in and let him off the beach.
We don’t know what’s going through Jack’s mind. Does he think we’ve moved? Is he disheartened at the thought of having to pee on an entirely new neighborhood? One thing we do know is that no matter how much we adore this four-legged member of our family, he probably didn’t really need a vacation, and definitely won’t be coming on our next one.