Reader's Tails
Wag and the City
by Leslie Smith
Happiness may be a warm puppy, but sometimes a gal needs a little more than a friendly face wash and a good morning bark.
I am a single woman living in a large urban center, and that is where the striking similarities between me and the characters in “Sex And The City” end. It’s not that I would object to making love to a wide variety of good-looking guys. It’s just that, with my dog Wag around, my chances of “getting any” in a meaningful way are rapidly evaporating from slim to none.
To invite a man home with me is no longer courtship, it’s courting disaster. In the first place, the guy has to like dogs. Or at least say he likes dogs, because I’ve grown so fond of mine that I can’t imagine being with anyone who doesn’t like him. Then he has to submit to Wag’s own approval process, which usually involves some sort of invasive sniff test.
When that momentary embarrassment passes I’ll slip Barry White into the CD player, grab some wine, and settle back onto the living room couch. Hopefully, things go well, and soon the two of us are snuggling. Wag, being sociable, decides to join in. The sofa is, after all, his natural habitat and it does seat three.
At this point, I am disinclined to cater to his needs. Wag then lies down resentfully at my feet, staring at me with unblinking eyes. In terms of performance enhancement, this kills the mood faster than a phone call from my mother.
By this time many men can and do call it quits. Let’s say, however, this particular one is made of sterner stuff. Clothes are shed, whereupon he’ll make the unfortunate discovery that my dog likes to shed too. My date’s beautiful navy wool suit is now bristling with dog hairs, which only time and a good pair of tweezers will eventually remove.
But blood is running hot. We repair to the bedroom, firmly shutting the door on Wag who, bereft, whines and scratches at the woodwork, drowning out Barry’s deep, mellow tones. The subsequent lovemaking is as good as it can get when one partner is wracked with guilt and the other is annoyed beyond all measure.
The morning after dawns. My date, being a gentleman, has not grabbed his hair-strewn clothing and snuck out in the middle of the night. He is there in the kitchen, looking tousled and satisfied, brewing a pot of java and asking how I like my eggs. He is perfect.
That is, until he makes some passing remark about Wag being a bit of a handful the night before.
Later that morning, I am sipping my coffee alone while Wag licks the yolky remains from my plate, and I’m brooding on my subsequent, fatal argument with Mr. Right.
It is then that I realize that amour takes many forms and perhaps, just perhaps, the soft bundle at my feet is destined to be the true love of my life. Sex is so overrated anyway.
