So, we meet up with Foerth for lunch today. Foerth and I arrived at Chick-fil-a about 10 minutes before Steve. Foerth is being his usual twitchy self, and all of a sudden he goes:

“So, I gotta ask you and see what you think…I found this little like pimple thing in Indy’s groin area.” (Indy being Foerth’s mangy little dog). Here’s a pic for those of  you who have never had the pleasure of meeting Devil Dog.


“Okay, first of all, what the hell were you doing looking at your dog’s groin area?” I ask.

“Oh, you know, he was lying on his back on the floor, and I just sorta noticed it,” says Foerth. “Anyway, how long do you think it takes for a black widow bite to set in? I looked online and it said the worst pain is in the first 1-3 hours. I noticed this thing at six this morning, so it can’t be a black widow bite, right?”

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” I say. “You noticed a pimple on Indy’s groin and you think it’s a black widow bite? Wouldn’t you have noticed if he got bit? Did you actually see a black widow?”

Foerth is quiet for a minute, thinking. “Well, no, but I looked online and it might be one. There are a lot of black widows here, and who knows when it might have bit him. He doesn’t seem hurt though, and he’s not licking it or anything, so he’s probably fine, right?”

“Right, it’s probably nothing,” I say.

Foerth is quiet for a minute.

“Yeah it’s probably nothing,” he says.


“But nothing came out when I tried to squeeze it, so it can’t just be a pimple,” he says.

It takes me a second to process what he just said. And when I do, I almost gag a little.

“Wait…did you just say you squeezed this pimple-thing?”

Foerth is quiet for another second, as if he can’t decide whether he really wants to continue with the story now that he has begun to spill the details.

“Well, yeah, you know, I wanted to make sure what it was.”

“Foerth, that is disgusting! Why the hell would you do that?”

He starts to turn a little red and get embarrassed. It’s not hard to tell when Foerth is embarrassed because he paces a lot and can’t seem to keep still. So, he’s pacing around me like a caged animal, and I’m trying really hard not to drop Cadence because I’m laughing so hard.

“Well, I…I don’t know…it would just be my luck if it was a black widow bite, and then he needs medication and surgery and all sorts of other…”

I interrupt him. “Foerth, it’s not a black widow bite! Jesus, it’s probably just an ingrown hair. Why the hell are you so bent out of shape about this.”

Still pacing.

“I don’t know, I just noticed it this morning. I’m sure it wasn’t there before…” he says, but I interrupt again.

“How do you know? How often do you look at your dog’s groin?”

“That’s disgusting,” he says.

“No, what’s disgusting is finding a freakin’ pimple on your dog’s groin and then squeezing it! What the hell man?”


About that time Steve pulls into the parking lot.

“Oh my God, wait til I tell Steve,” I say, laughing.

But Foerth isn’t listening, instead he’s muttering to himself as he digs his phone out of his pocket.

“Why am I even asking you, I can just call his vet…” he says. Apparently, he has the vet’s number programmed in his phone.

“Foerth, don’t do that, I can just ask my Aunt Jen…”

But it’s too late.

“Um, hello? Yes, I have a question. I have a small 18-pound terrier and, um, this morning I noticed a small…well, sort of pimple thing in his…uh…his groin area. I was just wondering how long it would take for a black widow bite to take effect…”

“Who the hell is he talking to?” Steve asks, walking up.

I fill him in on the story thus far.

“Yo! He gave his dog the herp?!” Steve yells.

“Well, no, I didn’t actually see a black widow, but I was looking online….” Foerth continues as he walks far enough away from us that the receptionist can’t hear Steve yelling out the names of various STD’s.

A few minutes later, he hangs up, disgusted.

“Well they are no help!” Foerth says, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. “They said I should just call poison control.”

“Foerth gave his dog the HERP!” Steve yells again. Then asks quietly, “Foerth, were you touching your dog’s penis?”

By this time, we are standing in line in the Chick-fil-a, and Foerth has turned seven different shades of red.

“No!” he says. “But a black widow bite…”

“FOERTH! IT’S NOT A BLACK WIDOW BITE!” I insist. “Seriously dude, you are acting freakin’ crazy right now! What has gotten into you today?”

“Nothing,” Foerth says. “I just don’t know what’s wrong with Indy…”

“Is he acting strange?”


“Does he act like he’s hurting?”


“Does he even seem to notice this little pimple-thing you found, except maybe when you were trying to squeeze it?”


“Then he’s fine dude, let it go!”

We place our orders and find a table. While we eat, Steve changes the subject and the boys talk about sports, movies, Foerth moving back to NY in a couple weeks. As we finish up, Foerth gets all quiet again, and Steve looks over at him. 

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks.

“Nothing,” says Foerth.



Silence for a few moments. Then Steve leans over and says quietly, “Dude, you gave your dog the HERP!” And Foerth turns red all over again.

“But if it’s a black widow bite…”


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