My recent beach vacation began with the kind of unfortunate incident that we all dread: killing a distant relative.

It was about 3 a.m. Me, my two sons, and our dog had been on the road since about 7 p.m. the previous day to get to our beach house on Plum Island, Massachusetts. Google maps said our exit was coming up and that we were only about 15 minutes away from our palace. Buoyed by that projection, I sat a little taller in my seat.

“Is that the salty sea air filling my nostrils?” I thought to myself. “Is that a refreshing ocean breeze cooling the air? Is that a f...
—and then, thumpity bump bump bump— ...ox that just disappeared under my car?!”

“I think that was a fox, Dad,” answered my son before I could speak.

“That’s what I thought, too,” I said. “Darn. Kind of ironic. And not in a good way.”

“Yeah, way to go, Dad,” my other son added.

Everyone’s a critic.

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