Waze, Wisdom, and the Forgotten Chihuahua

Today kicked off early—way earlier than my body prefers—but I had business in Chesterfield, South Carolina. I was there to take my Rhode Island auto appraiser’s exam (don’t ask why that happens in South Carolina—I’ve stopped questioning this system).

I wasn’t allowed to bring my phone into the testing center, which was a shame because the place was a time capsule. It looked like your middle school guidance counselor’s office, complete with motivational posters straight out of the Reagan years. I swear I saw the classic “Hang in There” cat still gripping that rope like it was 1987.

The test? Easiest one so far—just 40 questions. I passed it quick and collected another official-looking piece of paper with my name and yet another DMV-style headshot that looked like someone just told me I was getting drafted into the potato army.

Fingerprinting & Mr. July Returns

From there, I had to get fingerprinted. No ink anymore—they just roll your fingers on a digital scanner. The woman checked my ID, clicked a button, and snapped a photo to send to Florida.

It was only on the screen for a second, but sure enough—another masterpiece. Eyebrows cocked, eyes wide. Mr. July strikes again.

The Road Home (and the Dirt Road Detour)

Now I was free to head home, and since I didn’t have to backtrack to Chesterfield, I took the regular way—one I know well from our drives to Florida. I’ve got a good sense of direction, and once I’ve been somewhere a few times, I can usually find my way without help. That said, when I’m unsure, I trust Waze.

Sure, there was that one time it tried to send me down active railroad tracks, and another where it insisted I take a logging road through what looked like a horror movie set. But 95% of the time? It’s right. So when Waze told me to turn onto a dirt road that ran for 15 miles through the Carolina backwoods, I didn’t argue.

I'm gonna drop the hammer

It was beautiful. Sandy, quiet, lined with pines. It felt like stepping back in time—until I got the urge to channel my inner rally driver. I fought the urge. I really did.

But not hard enough.

Seconds into a nice sweeping turn, Jamie’s SUV lit up like NORAD. Every sensor in the thing decided to tattle on me at once:

Wheel Speed Sensor: “Uh, traction control? We got a situation here.”

Traction Control: “Copy that. AdvanceTrac, shut it down.”

AdvanceTrac: “Already reducing engine power.”

Lane Assist: (from the corner, lighting a cigarette) “Ain’t my problem—haven’t seen a line in 10 miles.”

I imagine them later at the digital water cooler, gossiping about me: “He didn’t even put it in sport mode. Amateur.”

Despite the sass from the SUV, I rolled into home a full half hour early. Great success.

Family Folklore: The Forgotten Dog

On the way home, I passed through the stretch between Florence and Darlington—a piece of road that doesn’t seem like much, but in our family, it’s the stuff of legend.

If you’ve ever packed an SUV full of kids, dogs, fishing gear, snacks, phone chargers, and 11 different bags that look like diaper bags but aren’t—you know the chaos. You’re doing the final house sweep, making sure the cats have food, the air fresheners are unplugged, and no one left the curling iron on.

Most of the time, if you forget something, it’s just sunglasses or a charger. But on one trip? Two hours from the house, completely packed and rolling south, Jamie suddenly sat bolt upright in the passenger seat, threw out her best Kevin McCallister’s mom impression, and screamed:

“BELLA!”

We had left the 20-year-old chihuahua at home. Alone.

I’m not proud.

We basically recreated the entire Home Alone scene in real life, except instead of Kevin, it was a blind, mostly deaf, and fully incontinent little rescue dog sitting on our couch, completely unaware anything was wrong. She hadn’t moved. Probably didn’t even notice we were gone.

If my old man Alan was watching from the afterlife—and I hope he is—I’m sure he gathered everyone around to explain how disappointed he was in me. “Two hours away from home? Four hours behind schedule? Is he stupid or something? My only redeeming quality that day was eventually catching  and passing my two daughters in their own respective cars before we got to the rental house

Bonus Beach Story (Still Bella)

On another trip, Jamie decided Bella needed to experience the ocean—sort of a bucket list thing. So we carried this fragile, blind, confused little dog all the way out to the Outer Banks.

She sat in Jamie’s arms, turned toward the Atlantic like a tiny dog philosopher… took in the salt air… and then made it perfectly clear she hated everything about the beach.

We carried her back to the car in defeat. Good try, though.

Heading Home

So that’s another license earned, another road wandered, and another family story carved into the lore. Bella’s not on the couch anymore—she passed on not long ago—but if there’s a doggie afterlife, I like to think she’s somewhere warm, blind-sniffing a sea breeze, wondering why the sand’s so damn annoying.

Jamie’s  will have forgiven me for the dirt-road rally attempt, the Expedition’s sensors are probably still talking trash about me, and I made it home in time to hop on a call like I wasn’t just in eight counties and two time zones worth of potholes.

Until next time—trust Waze, listen to your wife, and if you’re packing up the SUV, double check for elderly Chihuahuas.

—Nate