Determined to
change my unhealthy cycle in the romance department, I signed up for a course
called Making Love Work. The instructor suggested telling everyone in my life
about my single status and asking them to set me up on blind dates. I met all
the men my friends and associates suggested, and there were many.
Before I would
commit to more than just coffee, they had to pass the “Blondie test.” Usually,
the “Blondie test” took place at a French Bakery near my house. Being the 12-year old sage that she was by then, or 64 in human years, I depended on
Blondie’s wisdom more than I should have. (This age based on a dog-human
comparison that says the first two years of dog’s life are equal to 24 human
years and then each year after that is the same as four in human terms). I hoped she would have the good instinct that I lacked when
it came to men. And right away, I could tell who was appropriate for me and who wasn't based on their initial comments, or lack there of, regarding the fact
that I brought my dog with me.
“Oh, what’s your
dog’s name?” If they praised my dog when we met and began petting her, then
that was a good sign.
“You brought your
dog?” on the other hand told me that we were definitely NOT compatible. Even
worse, those who were allergic or who were concerned about getting dog hair on
their clothes. My outfits were never complete without her blonde hair attached.
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