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.