Tags: a guy and his dog, Australian Shepherd, best guys for a relationship, Dodge Durango, high-maintenance girlfriends, little black dress, responsibilities and joy of dog ownership, unconditional love of a dog, why girls should date a guy who has a dog
I have a theory. A woman who wants a relationship with a great guy who is generous, attentive, and affectionate should date a guy who owns a dog (or two).
You can tell a lot about a guy by how he interacts with dogs and how he cares for his own. Cats don’t count. With a cat, you can set out bowls of food and water and leave it unattended and virtually ignored for days at a time and the cat is totally fine with that. You can’t do that with a dog. Dogs are like high-maintenance girlfriends. We need attention—and good food. We like to go for long walks on the beach, roll around on the grass getting and giving kisses. We like a nice meaty boner, and of course, we’ll never turn down a gift of a shiny silver necklace.
But, all material and physical benefits aside, there are intangibles that outweigh the obvious. The #1 reason to date a Dog Guy? Guys who own dogs already know how to care about someone other than themselves. Before they can run off to party with their friends, they have to make sure their pooch is cared for. Instead of indulging in a Budweiser bender and sleeping off the hangover, they’re up early to run with the dog. When guys come home after being gone, they look forward to receiving and giving unconditional love. It’s not rocket science to figure out. The responsibilities and joy of dog ownership prep a guy to care for a wife and kids.
I put my theory to the test when I began dating after The Break-Up. (Yes, it was a major enough experience to require capital letters and even inspire a book about it.) The first guy I finally agreed to go out with was intelligent, funny, and persistent (probably a trait he learned from his Australian Shepherd, Max). For a casual first date, he convinced me to go to a soccer field so our dogs could run and play together while we reclined on a blanket in the grass. It was very Wrigley’s-Spearmint-Gum-Kiss-A-Little-Longer commercial-ish. Outdoorsy fun. Down-to-earth vibe. Sorta romantic. He was the kind of guy who would offer a handful of freshly-picked daisies before he tried to put his hand down your pants. So that was all good.
But I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention there can be a minor drawback to the whole dog thing too. On our way out to dinner one night, I climbed into the front seat of Dog Guy’s Durango. I was rocking the cute LBD and lookin’ like a million hot skinny bucks (thanks to the break-up diet). We arrived at my favorite sushi restaurant and I got out of the car. That’s when the static in the air stood every hair on end. Not my hair. The 300 lbs. of dog hair covering every inch of my little black dress. And there were hundreds of strands of dog hair stuck to my lightly-oiled bare legs. I looked like I washed my Sasquatch pajamas without a dryer sheet.
But ya just gotta say, “Whatever. Hair happens.” That’s what tape rollers are for.
When it comes down to it, nothing in the world is as sexy and endearing as watching a guy with his dog. The joy in his smile. The warmth in his voice. The gentleness of his touch. The love in his eyes. All that can be yours when you’re in a relationship with a Dog Guy. I know this to be true because I’m married to one.
Tags: Annette Fix, modern Prince Charming, Mr. Nice Guy, The Bad Boy, The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir
I met a lot of nice guys at various times in my life. And as soon as I discovered how nice they were, it was the kiss of death. There was just no way I could respect a guy unless he backhanded me in front of his friends and said I was nothing but a dope man’s bitch. (What is it about the bad boys that makes a girl fall over with her heels behind her head?)
I think I’ve figured it out.
As a little girl, I watched all the Disney movies. I wanted to believe in princes, but I don’t think I was convinced they really existed. So, of course, when I actually found one that wasn’t animated and wearing blue tights, I was naturally suspicious.
Why is it so hard to believe that nice guys exist? And why is it even harder to accept it, appreciate it, and enjoy it?
For me, when a guy was nice, I felt it translated to “weak.” I called those guys Herberts. A Herbert is a guy who would say, “Yes, dear. No, dear. Whatever you want, dear.” and basically bend to my sizable will. I had have a strong personality, so I always felt I needed a guy who was equally as strong or stronger. If we were about to get mugged, I wanted to be with a guy who wouldn’t need me to jump in front of him and club the robber over the head with my shoe.
When I moved to Orange County, I dated a nice guy—for about a week. The deal breaker was when, in passing, I mentioned to him in a phone conversation that I was tired and still had grocery shopping to do after I got home from work. At the end of my work day, I went home and found more than $100 worth of groceries on my doorstep. All the bags held thoughtful purchases, a mix of staples and a variety of other items, fresh produce, etc. That was just weird. Like discovering someone in your apartment laundry room emptied the dryer and folded your panties. It felt a little stalker-ish.
Now that my sensibilities have evolved, I’ve realized that was probably one of the sweetest things a guy I was dating had ever done for me. But I was too stupid to realize it at the time. Luckily for me, my fairy godmother gave me another chance. She dropped a potential husband/prince into my lapdance, and on our third date, he appeared on my doorstep with a truckload of sod, two palm trees, and an avocado tree. That was the thoughtful result of me mentioning, in passing, that I loved avocados, the city had cut down my tree, and the dogs tracked in mud because there wasn’t enough grass in my backyard. He spent our date planting, watering, and slaying dermapterans. Hurray for landscaping and other acts of foreplay! I fell head over heels for Mr. Nice Guy, my modern Prince Charming.
I had a friend once who witnessed another thoughtful gesture from that same potential husband and she said: “He’s just not normal. He’s too nice. He’s the type of guy that the neighbors say to the reporters, ‘He seemed so nice, I never would have expected he had 43 dismembered bodies buried under his house.’ I’m a realist. I’m just saying that there is probably something major about him that you don’t know. For all you know, he could be a Danish spy.”
I’m happy to say: he’s not a spy, he still does thoughtful things for me every day, we’re galloping toward happily-ever-after, and that skeptical friend found her own prince. They really do exist. And there is no such thing as “too nice.”