My dog has now officially been to four states. And by “been to,” I simply mean “pooped in.” No, I’m not generally this crass, but we’re speaking in dog-terms here, people. I sure as hell don’t measure my worldliness on where I’ve had bowel movements. Just his. ‘Cuz how else? He can’t drive a car…

Yet.

Anyway, Dogzilla went with The Wife™ and I on vacation last week, and boy what a grand time it was. After major strategery in packing the car, I stepped back to realize that, much like when having a child, 80% of the items contained in the vehicle pertained to him (the remaining 19% was The Wife™’s entire wardrobe. This 1% of space left me with nail clippers and a busted sandal for a week’s worth of clothing). Awesome.

After a weekend stop-over in Toledo for my friend Tyler’s wedding (Hi Tyler!), we hit the road to Maryland at 8am. (I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you, random assortment of alcoholic beverages from the night prior, you made those 10 hours in the car just that much more awesome.) And after only 24 hours in the condo with us, Jonas was off to Doggy Summer Camp (read: a kennel in Delaware, an entire state away, just so that we couldn’t hear his barking). We hadn’t planned on this, but drastic times call for drastic measures people.

[This middle part is where Jonas was gone for four glorious days, when I reclaimed my sanity and remembered what life like a normal person was. Not much else to recount. Just that I got my entire life back, that’s all.]

After picking up Jonas from Camp on Friday night, we decided that he should go down on the beach to see the ocean before we left town. Here is where the personalities of each family member truly, truly shine.

As I suggest to The Wife™ that we take him onto the beach (read: 10 feet away), she gives me The Look™. And as I walk toward the sand, dog in tow, she acts as if we’re planning a stick-up in broad daylight. See, The Wife™’s sensibilities are highly offended if you even think of doing something against The Rules™. And since technically the beach season wasn’t over for another two days, dogs were not allowed. The Rules™ can kiss my ass. I had driven 1200 miles at this point and dammit my spastic dog was going to see the Atlantic Ocean before driving another 800 miles in the other direction.

So down the shore we went, The Wife™ stealing glances to make sure the SWAT team wasn’t setting up to take us out, Jonas clearly mesmerized by the foreign substance beneath his paws, and me determined as hell to see it all through. Two steps onto the beach, he face-bombs into the sand to do his best impression of a puppy bulldozer. Pushing the sand mounds around using his snout, it’s as if he’s found his calling in life. That is, until he inhaled. This resulted in a tremendous succession of puppy sneezes, which to be honest is still one of the funniest things ever in the history of ever.

By the time we made it to the edge of the ocean, Bob the Bulldozer had tiny piles of sand on top of his schnoz. But, not surprisingly, he didn’t give a crap. And then he saw the water.

Water for Jonas is a weird thing. Bath time? Fine. No problem. Hello tub! From a hose? Hell no! Take that weapon of pain elsewhere, human! We really had no idea what he would think of the ocean, so we approached with caution. Oddly enough, he unfolded in stages.

Stage 1: Relative indifference. It was if we had shown him my fingernail. I dare say he’s been more entranced by golf matches on TV.

Stage 2: Apprehension. He’s noticing something is different here. He follows me into the lapping wave until the point where it actually might touch him. Then he back-peddles with the grace of a drunken donkey so that the terrible molten substance might not eat his flesh.

Stage 3: Acceptance. After seeing me stand in the waves and not have my legs melt off, he apparently decides that this oddity is indeed acceptable. So he prances in, splashes around, and seems to fancy it.

Stage 4: Dominance. True to his form, after realizing that the ocean was not a threat to him, he swiftly moves to wanting to conquer it. He smashes his paw into the wet sand, commanding the wave to STOP! When the water line recedes, he is flabbergasted. He begins furiously digging, to recover the water that left him. When the next wave arrives he takes it up a notch and decides that biting the water will surely kill it dead, making it stay at his command.

This is the point where Jonas learns, for the second time, that sand is not to be eaten or snorted. Though it takes him several generous mouthfuls to realize this, his hacking and sputtering on the way back up the beach convinced me that he understood.

So, the moral of the story here is three-fold: my dog is not as unreasonable as I think he is. He is equally vexed about the insubordination of the Atlantic Ocean as he is with me not bending to his will. Secondly, my wife is a paranoid Goodie Two Shoes who is still convinced we’re getting that $25 fine in the mail. And lastly, I just think they’re both plain nutso.