My Most Anxiety-Producing 24 Hours of Waiting Post Hook-up — It’s Not What You Think

Shortly after my dog, Bari, and I moved to Delray Beach, Florida, we settled into a routine of morning and afternoon walks. One hot, steamy June afternoon, I walked Bari around the quiet and low-key bougie streets of our intercoastal neighborhood. Every yard was adorned with beautifully manicured displays of palm trees, frangipanis, and hedges. But my thoughts were admiring something else… or rather someone else: the guy I slept with the night before. 

Since I was off in daydream land, Bari played the role of navigator, leading the way toward his favorite row of hedges. He deemed the patch of grass next to these bushes his pooping spot. His walking trot slowed to a saunter, and then he began his preparatory sniffing and circling. I stood still and turned my gaze to the sky to give him some privacy while he did his thing. My thoughts drifted back to this new guy…

I wonder if he’ll text me today. He was so insistent on hanging out, even after I blew him off. It would be weird if he didn’t text. Especially after the night we had together. Already five p.m. and nothing. But he’s working. Should I text?

I was so engrossed in my who-texts-who conundrum, it took me a minute to realize Bari was taking his sweet-ass time. I furrowed my brow.

“Dude, what’s yo— ?” 

Bari was hunched in the dog poo position. He rocked back and forth on his hind legs, like a teetering barstool with uneven legs. His eyes stared at me, bulging with exertion. 

“Oh, shit.”

He pushed with all his might but the half-in half-out mass wasn’t coming out… because it wasn’t a turd.

“God dammit, Bari!”

This wasn’t the first time he ate some non-food item which meant this wasn’t the first time I had to wrap a doggy waste bag around my hand like a glove to pull out an unidentified object. I let out a frustrated sigh. Grimacing, I crouched behind him. Anal extraction finished, I opened my hand to see what I just removed from Bari’s fuzzy rump.

A condom. 

“OH MY GOD!” I glared at Bari “You’re so gross!” I whisper-yelled through clenched teeth. The little creep must have dug in the bathroom trash can while I was obsessively checking my phone for texts throughout the day. “Ugh, is dog food that bad you have to eat condoms?” His only response was to kick some dirt with hind legs towards me, signaling the end of his poo session. He didn’t thank me for the assist, either (jerk).  

I snapped upright, looking over both shoulders. How embarrassing if some sweet old snowbird lady drove by, and here I am, holding a shit-covered condom on the side of the street? I hastily wrapped the condom in the bag to hide it.  

“Oh, no.” My free hand covered my mouth. Visions from the night before raced through my mind but not in an “Oooo, let me play that back one more time because damn, that was hot!” kind of way. It was more in an analytical, data-driven way because I was counting. There was more than one condom to be accounted for.

I glared at Bari. “How many did you eat?” I demanded. 

He looked up at me, a big ol’ doggy grin from pointy ear to pointy ear. Blinking his eyes lazily in the hot sun, Bari seemed quite content to keep his nasty secret to himself.

I rushed home, beelining straight for the bathroom trash can. I prodded around Q-tips, cotton balls smeared with removed make-up, discarded dental floss (errrryday, people. You gotta do it!), and the remnants of condom wrappers. Bari stood in the doorway, supervising. I frantically dumped everything on the floor and started digging like a dog for a bone.

Not a single condom.

“Fuck. What now?” I sat on the bathroom floor, trash spread between my legs, resting my elbows on my knees in utter defeat. Bari took a cautious step forward and rested his chin on my leg. I put my face in my hands. “I’m sorry, Bari.”  

After cleaning the floor, I paced back and forth in the living room, debating my next move. Call the vet? What would I even say?

“Oh, hi! I want to bring my dog in.” 

“What for?” 

A chuckle to ease my nerves. “Well, I’m pretty sure my dog has a condom or two floating around in his stomach. I’m recently divorced so I’m just ‘getting back on the saddle’ as they like to say (insert more nervous giggling and awkward bent arm air punching even though the imaginary receptionist wouldn’t see it). “But I want to assure you I’m not a whore, okay? All the condoms are from one guy! But I’m not like a freak or sex addict. It’s just… I’ve only had sex with one person for the past nine years of my life, and I spent most of that time trying to avoid it! And when we did it was like a close my eyes and pretend he was Travis Kelce or a Hemsworth brother until it was over kind of situation, ya know? I thought I didn’t like sex but turns out I just didn’t like my ex-husband! And now, I can have sex with other people and I’m remembering, ‘Hey, this is fun and I do like it!’ Well, anyway, do you have any openings this afternoon?” 

Yeah, no. Not calling a veterinarian’s office. 

“Okay, Claire.” To calm my panic, I went into a full-on soliloquy. “You’re a medical professional. You can figure this out.” Granted, all my medical experience was in pediatrics but in pharmacy school, I did take an elective on veterinary medicine one semester. I only remembered two things from that course: Meperidine is good for pain in walruses. Cats can’t glucoronidate. “That’s not helpful. Damn.” 

I tried a new train of thought. After all, babies can’t talk and dogs can’t talk either. So how did we figure out when babies are sick? A sick kid won’t eat or drink normally. They won’t go to the bathroom regularly. And they don’t play. If Bari is eating, drinking, peeing, pooing, and playing, then he’s fine! I looked at Bari to confirm he was doing all the things. He was sprawled out in a patch of sunlight on the floor, snoozing without a care in the world. His day had been filled with all his usual activities, and none of his behavior had been out of the ordinary… except for the whole shitting a condom thing. But at least it came out. So there was a chance the others would come out just fine, too.

I decided to wait and see. The next 24 hours were spent anxiously watching every little thing Bari did and more time looking at his butthole than I’d care to admit. He remained completely unbothered. All remaining condoms made their (assisted) evacuations and I breathed easier knowing I wouldn’t have to explain my dog died from me being a whorey little tart. 

And the guy did text me. We had a good laugh about Bari and decided it was best for me to go over to his place.