Must Love Dogs

A Little Background… A valentines day content on a dating site offered free radio time to the  “Best Dating Story” winner.  Notice all the shameless plugs for my website, Yes, I won…
Typically, when I get a “wink” with no photo attached, I ignore it. The box that says “Ask me for my photo” should conclude with “if you dare.” I liked the screen name, though “MirandaAndHerDog” so I looked at her profile. Sounded sweet, called herself pretty, slim, exotic. Said “Must love dogs” and I do. In fact, I’m the creator of a website for elderly, disabled, and special needs dogs called “” Figured that should be worth a few points.

… so I dared and clicked “Ask me for my photo.”

WHAM! My mailbox filled with the sweetest set of eyes I’ve seen since “Tomb Raider.” Long, straight brown hair with bumps and curves in all the right places. I would have scoffed, suspecting a ‘bait and switch’, but standing next to her was a drooling bug-ugly pug-dog that you had to be a mother to love. Could this be for real?

I was right about She took one look at my website and was sold. “So many men just say they love dogs, you actually help thousands of dogs every day.” We agreed to meet the next day at a restaurant “…with outside tables so I can bring Stanley, OK?”

I sat at the table in the warm sun, brimming with anticipation. I silently prayed that she looked as good as her photo although, from past experiences, I didn’t really expect her to. Then she came around the corner and took my breath away. “Drop dead gorgeous” was an understatement – this woman could raise the dead with the promise of a smile.

I stood up and moved to greet her. It was love at first sight. No, not for her, for her dog, Stanley. The pug rushed me and planted his nose in my crotch with a sickening thud. She grinned, captivating me again, and said “Isn’t that sweet, he likes you!”

“No,” I thought. That’s not sweet at all.

We ate dinner. I might have drooled, but Stanley did enough for the both of us – and all over my good black pants. We spent hours together that evening while she told stories about men who only pretended to love dogs while Stanley continued to inflate my dry-cleaning bill. I heard little, simply watching as her lips parted, her breasts shifting slightly under her white cashmere sweater, her shimmering hair and long fingernails speaking of thrills and delight.

She was so taken by my work that she asked if I would have her over for dinner the following night so she could see where I built I bought an instant lottery ticket on the way home and was, frankly, a little surprised that it wasn’t a winner.

The next night, Friday, she showed up at my door in an outfit that would have left me gasping if Stanley hadn’t already nailed that with his nose in my crotch. No sooner had we sat down then her cellphone rang.

“Oh No!” she said. “I need to leave right away and see a friend. Can I leave Stanley here? It would be so great if you and he became friends.”

The words “so great” were filled with such promise that I nodded and she ran out the door.

It wasn’t until Sunday night that I saw her again. The doorbell rang and I waded through the mess in my living room; broken plant pots, dirt, torn couch cushions, chewed shoes, puddles of slobber. Stanley was already at the door when I opened it and he jumped into Miranda’s waiting arms.

Miranda turned away quickly, holding the dog, and said over her shoulder “Sorry, I have to go. I’ll call you, OK?” and got into the passenger seat of an obviously expensive sports car driven by a well dressed man. By the time I could frame my question, all I could see was Stanley in the back window of the Beemer as it sped away. He was peering at me over his wet nose. I swear he was laughing.

 … and No, it’s fiction.