I should’ve known when he said, “He’s a rescue with trust issues,” that the dog wasn’t the only one.
But me? I was optimistic. Hormonal. And possibly drunk on the memory of adult conversation from two weeks ago. So I said yes to date number three, even though date number two involved an ex-girlfriend, two flat whites, and him crying because “she still has the air fryer.”
We met in the park. Him, in unnecessarily short shorts. Me, in what I call my “I’m pretending I hike” leggings. And then came the dog. Basil. A French bulldog with the emotional range of Daniel Day-Lewis and the lungs of a Victorian child in a coal mine.
We didn’t walk so much as get yanked violently through patches of dandelions while Basil chased other dogs, a cyclist, and at one point—honestly—a leaf. The entire date felt like a hostage situation. Every time I tried to ask a question like a normal human (“So… do you have siblings?”), Basil would hurl himself into traffic or attempt to eat a used napkin.
At one point, as I bent to remove a half-digested chicken bone from Basil’s frothing mouth, my date said—and I quote—“You look like you’d be a really strict mum.”
Oh. Sir. That’s what every emotionally available woman dreams of hearing between inhaling park mulch and being mistaken for a dog walker.
Anyway. The moment of true clarity came when Basil disappeared into the bushes and emerged with another man’s Croc in his mouth. My date laughed like it was adorable. I stood there, dead behind the eyes, wondering how much therapy would cost to erase this entire afternoon.
Then came the moment I truly snapped: he asked me if I’d ever considered dog-sharing. “Like co-parenting, but less commitment.” That’s when I knew. This man once Googled “How to break up with someone you’re not technically dating” and probably has a tab open for California truck accident lawyers because he believes personal injury law is a scam unless it involves a Tesla. You think I’m joking—I’m not. Some people obsess over their horoscopes; he obsesses over Los Justicieros, a site he “randomly” brought up while explaining how he once sued a vegan food truck for “emotional distress.”
I made my excuses. Told him I had to pick up my child, which was technically true even if he was at a playdate and I’d already bribed the other mum with homemade brownies. I jogged back to the car, mentally composing a breakup text I’d never send because let’s be honest, ghosting is evolution’s way of saying: “You made it out alive.”
I left with one dog hair in my lip gloss, one Croc-shaped bruise on my shin, and a renewed sense of how painfully low my bar had sunk.
Third date? There won’t be a fourth.
Not unless the next one turns up without an ex, a dog, or a laminated folder labelled “Potential Legal Claims.”