What I Learned by Staring at a Dog Dick for Five Hours
Five hours of problem-solving, and the strange difficulty of accepting help
6:30 p.m. Central Time – Front Porch.
It had been a beautiful, productive day. Research was lighting up my brain, the garden was flourishing, and I had earned some relaxation. It was time to rotate the dogs: Teddy inside, B.B. and Winter outside. I popped a freshly harvested sweet daddy pea pod into my mouth and crunched.
“Teddy, come on boy.”
Teddy sauntered begrudgingly inside and I escorted him to his box. I exited and rounded the porch to my door. At the first crack, B.B. snaked outside as if he were a prisoner, then came to a rolling stop in a couple feet like he’d left something important in his cell. Winter trundled out, butt gyrating in a puppy-play circle as she gaily meandered a winding path.
“Come on, sweeties,” I coaxed them up the ramp into the screened part of the porch.
Dogs secure, I’d completed half my warden duty. Time for a “break”; back to researching at my outside desk.
Iatrogenic, that’s a new word…
Before I could look up the definition, I caught movement in my periphery. B.B. had mounted Winter. I sighed dramatically and rolled my eyes.
“B.B.!” I walked over and pulled him off.
Winter came with him. Uh-oh.
I sighed again, this time more thoughtful. Hands on hips, I observed with as much scientific distance as I could, trying not to think of what that had felt like for B.B. My hand moved to my crotch, and I clenched my teeth.
The two separated. Winter, already a supplicant scaredy-girl, was swiveling between apologetic looks at me and licking her loins. B.B. couldn’t be bothered to look at me. My muscles relaxed.
Then my breath caught as I saw red staining his fur.
It’s probably from Winter, right?
I combatted my racing heart with controlled breaths. This was a natural process. Some blood was probably totally normal.
First things first, I brought Winter into my room, and put her in her crate. No more free roaming with B.B.
“Sorry, girl.”
Back outside, B.B. was going to town on his downtown. I rolled him over to get a closer look. He was fully engorged, and the blood didn’t seem to be running. Not to brag, but I’d had an erection before and happened to know the circumstance was temporary.
Any serious research was toast. I couldn’t afford to shunt off that much of my brain away from the B.B.-DSM aftermath. I read a Substack article to distract myself from the soundtrack of breathy smacking. After the second article, I checked on him again.
No change.
A thought about Viagra and four hours crossed my mind. I consulted the amateur physician that was the internet.
Paraphimosis is a medical emergency in which you can’t draw your foreskin back down over the head of your penis… You must get treatment as soon as possible to prevent permanent damage to your penis. – Cleveland Clinic
Why did “medical emergency” have to be the fourth and fifth words? My heart dropped and B.B.’s regular lapping grew distant. Too many variables went through my head. I wore my analytical overload mask as I walked inside.
My roommates (a married couple) were cooking dinner and playing video games (the Halo collection, if you’re somehow interested in that detail). Watching them go about their quiet lives, I froze. Hands paused as they ran through my hair, I’m sure I looked like I was in the middle of a painful shit.
In a way I was. I needed help, but not enough to interrupt. This was my fault, my burden.
I returned to the lapping soundtrack and pulled out my phone after the soft click of the door closing.
Fingers tapped, eyes flew, mind raced. Thirty to sixty minutes, that’s how long it could take to retract if the internet could be believed. I checked on his red rocket. Still no change.
“It’s only been fifteen,” I reassured myself. “OK, B.B., let’s get up.”
His raised leg quivered as he continued rhythmic licking.
“Come on, buddy.” I leaned down and tapped his shoulder.
His blue and brown eyes found mine, revealing the red mess of fur and flesh at his stomach. My tongue flexed against the roof of my mouth. B.B. wobbled, as if his legs had fallen asleep. He tried weakly to stand a couple times, then rolled back into position and resumed lapping. I stood, pressed a hand to forehead and ground my teeth enough to make a pearl.
After a few useless moments of contemplative staring, I walked through the front door, into the living room. Playful conversation danced between the couple and the earthy scent of cumin sat in the air. My face hurt from the various warring expressions, none of which had anything to say. The result must have been disturbing enough to get attention.
“Are you ok?” Elenore asked.
Adam looked from his game for a moment, quirked an eyebrow, then returned to the battle at hand.
They were literally moments away from dinner. What asshole would ruin that?
“Oh, B.B. mounted Winter. No big deal.”
Elenore’s eyes softened. “Let us know if you need something.”
“Definitely.” I closed the door behind me.
She meant it, that was the danger. Elenore was one of those people who would give of herself until Adam had to scoop what was left and pour her into bed.
I didn’t want to be the reason for that. I could figure this out. Thirty to sixty minutes…
With a little more coaxing, I was able to get B.B. onto wobbly paws and back into my room where I could get a better look at him. I wasn’t sure why I thought a “better look” would do any good. His crotch was a mess of tangled wet hair with a red monolith glimmering like a message from god.
The internet said the biggest danger was drying out, so I retrieved some coconut oil, nitrile gloves, and paper towels. Appraising the situation, paper towels were not going to be sufficient.
I walked around the house and into the living room.
“Do we have towels for the dogs?”
“Yes, they’re under there.” Elenore pointed to a stack of laundry bins.
“Thanks.” I began rummaging through the fabric. “And do we have any saline?”
“Saline?” they asked at once.
I pulled on the corner of a towel, revealing a rag. That wouldn’t cut it. I dove back in. “Yeah… well… B.B. didn’t just mount Winter… he… got inside.”
“Lucky him,” Adam quipped.
“Do you need any help?” Elenore asked.
They hadn’t even pulled the food from the oven.
“Uh…” Duty to dog and friends warred within me. “It’s only been about twenty minutes, it’s ok.”
My hand returned with two bath towels as they each nodded, going back to their tasks. A prickling sensation rolled over my shoulders and down my spine. Was I doing the math of this situation right? There wasn’t time to run a proof, this was a guess-and-check situation.
B.B. didn’t look up when I entered the room. I lay a towel flat on the ground and pulled him onto it. The other would be for clean-up. I slapped on some gloves and smeared a lump of coconut oil onto his swollen member.
It hadn’t receded a centimeter.
I felt strange staring at my dog’s dick. All my personal hangups and over thirty years of social conditioning told me this was gross and perverted. How could I have had space for a million horrible scenarios about my dog losing his penis, and still have thought “ewww, icky!”?
I kept B.B. from licking the coconut oil with gentle scolding and a firm hand; this was unpleasant enough without adding diarrhea to the mix. At the thirty-minute mark, there’d been no progress. I read the information again.
A cold compress. That made sense. Everyone knows about shrinkage!
I walked around the house and into the living room. The air shifted as their comfortable conversation came to a halt.
“How’s B.B.?” Elenore inquired.
Damn. I hadn’t spared enough attention to wipe the concern from my brow. I fumbled for words, avoiding their eyes by searching through the mound of fabric.
“Um…” I sought words to make them feel like I had it under control. I clenched my teeth like an iron gate.
My jaw shattered. “I don’t know.”
I spilled the situation until I was ankle deep in ignorance.
“Oh no, poor B.B.,” Elenore cooed. “I used to have two boy dogs when I was a kid, and my mom made me help them when they got like that. Do you need some help?”
There it was. Not just an offer, but knowledge and context. It was desperation more than strength of character that allowed me to accept it.
As we slathered on a piling handful of coconut oil, the tension in my shoulders eased a bit.
We spent five hours in the strangest red-light activity I could imagine. Elenore taught me how to gently run my finger around the edges of B.B.’s sheath to ease his penis back inside. Without her instruction, I didn’t think I would have had the courage to try even if I’d discovered the technique. Later, Adam was happy to provide unrequested comic relief, singing 🎶pour some sugar on me🎶 as I coated a cock in sugar slurry to help reduce the swelling[1].
Around midnight, we’d gotten everything but the head back in. After another hour without progress, we had to admit it was time to get some help from the vet hospital. We live out in the country, so the closest one was over an hour away.
“Drying out is the biggest danger,” remember? That meant I couldn’t let my friends off the hook, even though I wanted to. I was going to listen to the voice in my head this time.
Adam rode with me, basting B.B.’s bing bong in the back seat. Elenore drove separately so they wouldn’t have to wait with me all night. The last time they’d gone to the hospital, when Teddy had eaten a sprouting potato, they didn’t leave until six am.
I breathed easier, knowing that now it was just about money. I wasn’t rich, but I could figure a way to afford to save my dog’s dingle. Less than an hour after arriving at the hospital, B.B. was back in my car with a shaved crotch, dick intact. Music blared with windows down to keep me awake on the drive home. The aqua glow of the clock ticked over to 3:00am.
I wondered: what if I’d gotten what I wanted and had faced this alone? I considered the dozen ways I could have achieved a quick lie. All it would have taken was an ounce more willpower.
Reflecting on reality from the comfortable vantage of retrospect, the Grand Tetons I had imaged seemed little more than foothills.
Dinner could be reheated. Games could be saved.
I began to realize that by hiding my vulnerability, I hadn’t been protecting myself I’d been protecting some story about who I was. As I rumbled down our dirt driveway, I realized that’s not what I wanted after all.
This is not a look of contrition.
From the Rift,
[1] I’ll be spreading that trauma every time the song comes on; sorry to those who become collateral damage.
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