Our 33rd Wedding Anniversary: It Could’ve Gone Worse

Tamie and I were married 33 years ago last Friday. To celebrate, I planned a four-day getaway to the Oregon coast, complete with beachside accommodations, charming outdoor restaurants, scenic hikes, and a romantic train ride for three.

This seems like the appropriate time to mention that Rupert, our 80-pound dog, chaperoned. To be clear, this was not Tamie’s idea. She was outvoted in the election, however, two to one.

Anyway, we had everything packed and ready to go Tuesday night when Russia, long known for its hatred of intimate vacations, intentionally triggered an 8.8-magnitude earthquake that sent tsunami waves hurtling towards our rental. I briefly considered canceling but hadn’t purchased the optional trip insurance. So, the three of us drove 250 miles in a heroic effort to save our deposit from the tsunami, which still beat us to the coast because it wisely chose to cross the entire Pacific Ocean instead of taking I-405.

Fortunately, the accompanying waves were much smaller than anticipated and left without much ado—no shattered boardwalks, no floating beach chairs, no lost deposits. What they did leave, though, was a corpus of marooned marine life. Kelp. Jellyfish. Crabs. All dead. All pungent. And all strewn across miles of sand like some sort of gruesome sashimi crime scene.

Rupert could not have been more pleased with our choice in venues.

In case you aren’t familiar with labrador-based dogs, they’re essentially furry vacuum cleaners that run on enthusiasm and poor judgment. They believe if something smells like food, it’s food; and if it doesn’t smell like food, it’s still probably food.

We tried to stop him, of course. I can’t count the number of times we yelled “DO NOT EAT THAT CRAB!” and “SPIT THAT OUT!” and “QUIT LICKING THE JELLYFISH!” but he was so roused by the all-you-can-eat buffet he couldn’t stop being gross. He’d simply pause, apologize for his manners, then immediately progress towards the next dead thing. For four days. Well, four days minus the time we shared together on the romantic train ride, which Rupert spent hopping between our laps and fragrantly panting on our faces.

By the time we arrived back home, I’d learned three very important lessons:

1) The election may have, in fact, been rigged.

2) Tamie is an absolute saint for loving me and all my imperfections for 33+ years.

3) I will not be in charge of Anniversary #34.

Oh, and according to ChatGPT, you can’t catch shellfish poisoning from dog breath. Probably.