It seemed like a great idea at the time ...
It looked so good on paper, the way terrible ideas always do. Instead of boarding our miniature dachshund as we usually do when we go to the beach each summer, we were going to take him with us this year.
For months we talked about it, already relishing memories we hadn’t even made yet. His first encounter with the ocean, snapping at the water’s edge as the waves rolled in, chasing them back and then running for his life when the next one came crashing toward him full of silt and broken shells. His obsession with the fiddler crabs, scores of them scurrying in every direction at dusk as we walked along the sound, his tail like a tiny windshield wiper set at full speed. His exhilarating rides on our rented bikes, tucked like Toto in a cute little basket, ears billowing on both sides like ship sails, blown out in the salty breeze.
These were our expectations, but you know what they say about expectations. Expectations are the devil. That is something my wife has said for years, and she is right: expectations are the devil. I have had a lifetime of experience in this area, so you’d think I would know better than to rely so heavily on expectations. If I had only remembered my high school prom, just to cite one small example.
But no, we had a vision of how it would be taking our dog on vacation, and by the time we rolled out toward Edisto Beach a couple of weeks ago, it was as real and as vivid to us as the sweltering sun. This was going to be amazing! Why hadn’t we thought of this years ago?
Ordinarily, we can get to Edisto in about five hours, but thanks to endless road construction nightmares on I-26, it took us closer to eight or nine hours, and since we left about two hours later than we had anticipated, it was nearly dark when we arrived, too late to go down to the beach. We decided to grab some food and wait until morning to head to the ocean. Frody’s excellent beach adventure would have to wait just one more day.
The next morning, we had a quick breakfast, slathered on the sun screen, and hit the beach, Frody in tow on his thick blue and black leash. If he was overwhelmed by his first sight of the ocean and its intimations of immortality, a world without end, he made no discernible sign of it. He sniffed the water as it washed up and cooled his paws with a few tentative steps in the wet sand, then, like a snooty rich woman rejecting an expensive dress, he simply shrugged and walked away, returning the ocean to the rack without even trying it on, eventually tugging us back toward the cool shade of our beach canopy, done with the majesty of the beach in less than five minutes.
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Maybe the bike ride would go better. We packed up the canopy, chairs and the rest of our beach gear and headed down to the bike rental place to procure four bicycles and one basket just the right size for a 10-pound dog. We had no problem getting the bikes, but the first basket they brought out looked like the exoskeleton of a large, long-extinct insect. It looked as if it belonged in a glass case in a museum. One ounce of pressure and it would surely fall apart in a thousand tiny pieces. I wouldn’t have put my swim trunks in it, much less my dog.
My wife insisted on another basket, and the second basket was our only alternative. It was larger and certainly sturdier, though very old and rustic, like a cage someone had fashioned for a pet chicken during the Civil War. The problem was, it would not stay fastened to the bike — one little bump created tremendous turbulence, one decent pothole and the thing went flying off the bike as it had been hurled by a catapult.
We took it back for a refund. Frody would have to miss out on that bike ride.
We eventually made it home with our rented bikes and began sorting out plans for dinner when we heard a yelp. Frody had jumped from the king-sized mattress in the master bedroom and landed awkwardly, I guess. After a few hours of walking around with his back hunched — he looked like a furry horseshoe — we got worried and looked up the nearest animal hospital, which was an hour away.
The next day, we got an appointment and drove an hour to take him to the vet. He was diagnosed with a back problem and given three kinds of medication.
“You’re going to need to keep him from jumping on and off of things for about six weeks,” said the vet. “No stairs either.”
If you have never owned a miniature dachshund, some perspective is necessary. Telling the owner of a miniature dachshund that the dog cannot be allowed to jump for six weeks is like telling the owner of a goldfish that it must not be permitted to swim. Jumping is what miniature dachshunds do. They’re the Flying Wallendas of the dog world. They’re tiny professional wrestlers, jumping off the top rope to land on an opponent stretched out on the mat. I could not imagine how we would keep him from jumping for six weeks. I could not imagine why we thought it would be a good idea to bring him to the beach. It was not what we expected.
But, you know, expectations are the devil.
(Chris Cox is a writer and teacher who lives in Haywood County. His most recent book, The Way We Say Goodbye, is available at regional bookstores and at Amazon. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)
