It’s time to tell the terrible awful thing I did. Or, at least, the last terrible awful thing I did.

I’m a seashell collector. I always have been. I try to be selective on what I keep, because I’m limited on space after all these years. I put them in apothecary jars with sand and they are displayed in my bedroom and my library. I think they’re beautiful and it makes me smile when I look at them, remembering each trip. The photo at the top shows a mushroom that washed up. I also found cauliflower and broccoli that morning in St. Augustine. I got kind of excited about the mushroom, I thought it was really something unique.

I also have a knack for grabbing up shells with wild things still in them. This last trip was no different. I think I found most of Outer Banks population of hermit crabs. I check my shells thoroughly because I don’t want to kill any creatures just so I can have a pretty shell to display, but also, I don’t want to smell rotting varmint for two weeks as it dries out. It does get depressing, though, finding all these perfect shells only to have to toss them back.

So anyway, I had collected a few one day and had the majority of them spread on the porch railing to dissipate the ocean smell. I had brought a few into my apartment and they were piled on a corner of the desk for me to examine closely later. When I got out of the shower I was standing at the desk, combing out my hair, when I realized one of the shells had migrated a distance away from the rest. Weird. I pick it up, and sure enough, it was home to a tiny crab. Luckily the marina was mere steps away so I just marched over there and plomped him back in his salty habitat, albeit a few miles from where I found him. At least he wouldn’t die from dehydration.

LB, as you know, accompanied me to the ocean this last go-round. He is a water dog, I’m telling you. In the Sound, where the waves were minimal, he would dive. It was pretty impressive. Once he emerged with a clamshell, which he deposited into my hand when he paddled over. Your kid brings you a rock, you keep the rock. I kept the clamshell.

A few days before we left we were across the road at the marina I mentioned earlier. This is on the Sound side, which I preferred, because the ocean over on OBX is unbelievably rough. I don’t know how people can stand it. I think people who like Outer Banks have never been anywhere else… except maybe Myrtle. Anyway, here comes Lightning Bug with this absolutely DISGUSTING whelk shell between his jaws. And he was proud of it, let me tell you. The thing was huge, and covered in barnacles and gross green algae. Since the Sound doesn’t have the constant barrage of waves this poor shell had really fallen into disrepair. But it did have character. And again…your kid brings you a rock….

I wrapped it up in two plastic bags and put it in the trunk of my car. I didn’t bother taking it out since we would be leaving in two days and it was already smelly. I didn’t want to get a whiff of that every time I opened the door.

My last day at the beach I scooped up some sand and found enough shells to fill a jar and make a nice little display to compare with my others. I added this bag to the whelk shell bag.

On Friday night, I packed and loaded everything I could so I could blow this popsicle stand as early as possible. I was so done with Outer Banks. I’ve never been so ready to leave a vacation spot, and that’s saying something. I rode out a Category II hurricane one time in Florida. It seems like I’m always prying myself out of Charleston at sunset because I don’t want to come home.

Bright and early Saturday we started west. It had been an extremely hot week, and I was just glad to be heading back to the mountains where our mosquitoes weren’t raised by Dracula. It took nine and a half hours, which really isn’t too bad, considering. I took more breaks since I had LB, and longer ones, too, to ensure he was comfortable. And I don’t drive as fast when traveling with that precious cargo. The hardest part was remembering to water him. I had my cup that I sipped from regularly, and I had his bowl in the floorboard up front, so I’m not sure why I kept forgetting. We’d left that morning and I noticed he hadn’t drank a lot, but I didn’t worry too much about it. We stopped to fuel up and tinkle and I got back on the road, pleased to find there wasn’t much traffic at all. I set cruise to 85 and enjoyed the flat expanse of interstate.

Then it dawned on me.

I forgot to water my baby.

No way did I want to stop again, we had just gotten back on the road! And no traffic! I didn’t want to test my good fortune. Maybe I could reach his bowl…??? I COULD! He perked up from the backseat realizing something was happening up front that concerned him. Also, he was probably parched as all get out and wondering why I had forsaken him. Now, to get the water bottles out if the cooler….almost….stretch….yes!!!!

Now, the new problem was how exactly to mobilize my plan. Especially without spilling water all over my leather seats. I carefully poured half the bottle of water in the bowl as Lightning licked his lips. Bless his heart. He was faintly dancing from anticipation as I twisted my arm into an awkward position to the backseat, extending as far as I could and leaning into the steering wheel so as not to dislocate my shoulder.

He sucked it down very quickly, so I dumped the rest of the bottle in there. It was gone in no time. I managed to reach another bottle by tipping the cooler sideways and making promises to God. I put the bottle between my legs, unscrewed the lid, and dumped the whole thing in the bowl. This time, I only slid it back on the console and held it steady with my elbow as we sped down the interstate. I never took off the cruise and I never went over the lines. My dog drank 40 ounces of water going 85 miles an hour down the interstate. Getcha some of THAT.

This, of course, is not the terrible awful thing I did. That was merely breaking the law by speeding. That was just a little depriving of my dog by accident. The terrible awful thing was an accident, too, I assure you. But I wanted to tell that sidebar because I thought it was pretty cool. My dog has an interesting skill set.

Alright, so we arrive home without incident, and I get the car unloaded. This includes the bags of shells and sand that I open and arrange on my front porch table to allow better airflow. I shake the repulsive whelk shell completely out of the bag. It was positively reeking after two full days in my sweltering car.

Sunday morning when I finally drag myself outside to go collect my mail, I notice LB’s attention is fully on something in the yard. I call him, and he looks up with that vile shell in his mouth. I shriek, he drops it in the grass. I go collect it, noticing two new holes in the shell. I assume these are from where he had chewed on it. I replace it on the table, wondering how he was able to get it down. I move it to the center. Maybe a coon or possum had visited in the night and had knocked it down but wasn’t able to make off with it. It’s huge, and probably weighs a pound. But I’m sure the smell was irresistible to all the local critters. It still had a very loud odor, which is probably what attracted LB in the first place.

Alright. So about two weeks go by. I decide everything has had time to adequately air out. I purchase the jar from Hobby Lobby to hold all mine & LB’s treasures. I come home, wipe the jar down until it sparkles, and take it out in the porch to fill. Sand first. Then big shells. I place the clam shell and reach for the whelk.

Oh no.

Oh nooooooooo.

I hadn’t been as careful as I thought. Inside the whelk was an extremely large and exceedingly dead hermit crab. I bet that thing was at least thirty years old. And I had killed it. And not only had I killed it, it had suffered immeasurably. It had survived who knows how many hurricanes, octopi, tourists, tourists’ dogs….only to be wadded up in a plastic bag and left in a trunk for two days, then left on a table to dry in the sun. I suppose it had tried to make one final stab at freedom and had crawled off the table to crash onto my concrete porch (breaking its shell in two places, and toppled to the grass before that same dog happened back on it.

How I handled this thing that many times and never saw any indication of life should tell you what an expert survivor it was. But I was positively SICK. I am always immensely careful and I have never kept a single one, no matter how tantalizingly beautiful, that was home to a creature. I am heartbroken and similarly disgusted. It so wasn’t worth it. If I had wanted to keep one, I would have made sure it was at least a perfect specimen! Not one covered in moss and barnacles!

So, anyway. That’s what happened. I kept him, he’s immortalized with the rest of my treasures but I’m still sad about it and more than a little ashamed of myself. I guess you really can’t be too careful.