In fact, it’s less stressful than the average trip to the outer reaches of Hilton Head Island (which I prefer to call Death Race 2009 or “William Hilton’s Revenge”). Despite a brief directional miscue in Savannah (something of a personal tradition), the drive takes about ninety minutes this fall morning. Georgia’s northernmost Barrier Island sits at the mouth of the Savannah River, a short boat ride due south of Hilton Head, a bit longer drive for landlubbers from Beaufort. Tybee Island is to Savannah what Sullivan’s Island once was to Charleston – an oddball mix of resort and residential, townies and tourists, with plenty of sand, surf, history and nature all moving at a different pace. On a last ditch whim Susan finds the answer online: a dog friendly bed and breakfast on a nearby island neither one of us has managed to set foot on before. Just one problem – actually two problems – what to do with the dogs? They’re beginning to bond pretty well and boarding them at the last minute is not an option. As our anniversary approaches, it is apparent – at least to Susan – that we need a break, a change of scenery. Or so we think.Īnd so chaos and stress ensue, some of it Ollie-related, some of it the pure coincidence of life. We dub him “Ollie” after Dickens’ Oliver Twist, a fitting reference to his history and circumstances. Now, she has something other than us to terrorize. Nevertheless, the reigning queen of the household, our Miniature Schnauzer, Scout, seems to think the addition a fine idea. The “temporarily” part soon turns to something like “until we find him a good home.” Plus the little guy comes with a double whammy: a serious case of separation anxiety and mad skills as an escape artist. My softhearted wife, Susan, takes him in temporarily as a favor to a neighbor. The good deed is a thirteen-pound Jack Russell/Shih Tzu mix (we think) with a snaggle-toothed mug reminiscent of a fuzzy canine version of a James Cagney or maybe one of those Lollipop Guild guys from The Wizard of Oz. ![]() This all begins innocently enough (as these things often do) with a good deed and a whim. ![]() ) I’m running through what used to be the Fort Screven parade grounds wondering just how this happened, which direction he’s likely to have run, how far he’s gotten, if he’s okay, and what the hell did I just step in? Did I mention this is our wedding anniversary? But I digress… ( Mental note: add the other number to the tag and attach it to a GPS collar. Naturally, I have no flashlight and the only contact number on his collar tag is my wife’s cell phone, which (of course) is sitting on a coffee table back in Beaufort. I am running through the wilds of Tybee Island in the dark shouting in vain for a dog that has yet to really respond to this new name.
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