Ice cold Pepsi in one hand, plate full of hot dogs and potato salad in the other. The air smells of campfire, mosquito spray, and the lake.

You guessed it. We’re at a Fourth of July picnic with our family. The kids are running around, dirt caked on top of ketchup and sticky watermelon. The dogs circle like grounded vultures, waiting for one of the kids to drop food–or to lick the face of an unsuspecting toddler–yum.

My cousin, Tonya (names have been changed), suddenly jumps out of her seat and hurries to my chocolate lab puppy, Dove. “Dove, give me that. You’ll choke.”

“What’s she chewing on now,” I ask, secretly relieved that Tonya saw it first and I can keep on sipping and chomping.

“She’s got a balloon.” She grips it and starts tugging it out of the puppy’s mouth.

My brow crinkles. “Who brought balloons?”

Suddenly, an inhuman shriek pierces the air. “I DIDN’T KNOW THEY CAME IN PURPLE!” Tonya dodges the campchairs, jumps the fire, and rips open the door to the camper. “Ahhh!”

I exchange bewildered glances with my stunned relatives before hurrying to the camper.

There, my cousin is vigorously scrubbing her hands with dish soap. “Tonya?” her Mom asks.

She turns to us, a horrified look frozen on her face. “I didn’t know they came in purple.”

“Didn’t know what came in purple?” I ask.

Focusing on her hands, she scrubs harder. “It wasn’t a balloon. I was a used condom.”

We swallow and exchange glances, all of us wondering who the lucky person to clean up this “mess” before another dog, or worse, one of the kids gets into it.

My decision made, I nod my head. “My husband is the one who wanted a dog. I told him only if he cleaned up after her.”

He tried, and failed, to argue with my logic.