My Worst Date - Dating with a Big Dog

I always thought having a dog was a great way to meet people, maybe even men. I mean it is such a healthy, innocent way to get to know someone. Long walks get you out of your house, you mingle with neighbors, no bars, no cheesy clubs, no internet dating – only one problem. It doesn’t work. Mind you, I’m no fashion icon with my jeans, lug soled shoes, and 20 year old Gortex rain coat. However, I do have a great selection of cute hats!

I also suppose when your dog weighs 85 pounds and has an intent stare, it could be a deterrent for casual conversation. And if she thinks someone likes her, she is sure to jump directly into their face for a sloppy kiss or ear nibble. All of this makes for lousy conversation starters.

When I finally did catch someone’s eye, sans dog, I quickly suggested a neutral daytime meeting on his turf. Also, sans dog. Almost anything could go wrong with her around. Yeah, the guy was OK, pretty much a city boy, but with many attentive phone calls, it was time for date two. On my turf this time – uh oh. I live in a small German village and there is little to do, especially for a guy from the city. The best is to hike to the old mill in the forest and enjoy the local brew. By default, that was the plan – and at his suggestion - with dog.

Things went wrong from nearly the moment his BMW pulled up. My dog started spinning at the sound of the doorbell. Before I could even say hello, she had jumped up with her own exuberant greeting. He instinctively put his arm out so that she was hugging it with her front paws, and as she settle back down onto her haunches, left bleeding scratches on his forearms. I had inadvertently honed her claws to razor sharp by trimming them the day before. Oh, I was mortified. Thirty seconds in the door and he was bleeding on my rug.

That should have been an omen for later in the day and the relationship to come, but I’m not good at omens. I did my best Nurse Nightingale act and bandaged the guy up. We decided the dog needed to burn off some energy and to go for that hike I had planned. He put on a pair of running shorts and I wondered if it was to outrun the dog if necessary. Nevertheless, I grabbed enough money for the beers and we set off through the village, along the river in the forest, and finally to the old mill. The dog was relaxed, and besides frequent furtive glances at his arm and then the dog, the boy was no worse for wear.

By the time the beers arrived, we were enjoying the forest setting and laughing about the dog’s earlier greeting. She seemed less threatening sprawled on the restaurant floor. Though it was still early, we were both getting hungry after the hike, and unexpectedly ordered what seemed like all of the local specialties. After the first course arrived, however, a bite got stuck in my throat. I remembered I had only enough money for beer. Heat flared to my face as I stammered my confession. I had earlier assured him that he needn’t worry about bringing money. He had no pockets in his running shorts after all. We turned to explain to the waitress just as she was bringing out the main course. Too late, it was already out. Using our best but limited German skills we also explained to the owner that we were short on money, on foot, and would have to return with the rest later. She looked scornfully doubtful and with a huge helping of sarcasm told us to enjoy our meal. By then I wanted to crawl under the table with my dog.

To the guy’s credit, he tried his best to hold up the meal conversation despite my distracted frame of mine. When finished, we once again made our apologies, promised to return with the money, and bolted for the door. I led the way back, plowing through forest, field, and along castle gardens without even a sideways glance in my hurry. It was as though by nearly running, I could leave the embarrassment behind. Once back at my apartment, I grabbed the car keys, assured the boy my dog was no longer of threat, and headed for the nearest ATM, then back to the forest with our dinner money and a 20-euro tip. I nearly flung it at the waitress in my haste to flee the mortifying scene.

Upon returning to the flat and believing the guy would have left in disgust by now, I met a most remarkable sight. Lamps had been lit, Frank Sinatra was crooning from the stereo, my dog was sound asleep, and an opened bottle of Dom Perignon was waiting for me with two glasses. Despite the debacles of the day, the boy was willing to draw a line and start a new date from there. We laughed, reintroduced ourselves, and danced to ‘ol Frank on this, our “third” date. The boy? It didn’t work out. But on that night, with gratification, I showered him with champagne flavored kisses, as my dog watched, warily, with one eye…