Dog days.

Anyone that knows me knows my dating mantra well: for every five men you go out with, odds are high you'll only want to see one of them a second time. And even then, your inclination might be lukewarm at best. This, dear readers*, is why I date in volume.

In a dating world where a bachelor's big selling point is showing off his double-jointed ring finger (yes, it happened to me once) you could be out there for eternity. That is until recently...

I started going out with a fella' who -against my best efforts- has captured my genuine interest. I've now broken all my rules by granting (yes, it's a privilege) him four dates with me *and* I've forsaken my other prospects.

Case in point: this weekend, our dogs met. By the way, that's a big deal. OK, so it's not exactly Reagan and Gorbachev here, but pretty close in global importance. I spent at least twice as long grooming Schatzi as I did myself. Was not pleased to discover she had taken off her pink bandana and chewed up a corner, but I got the knots out of her ears and she hadn't been in the lake all week, so her BO was relatively under control. All good things.

After much to-do, I can confidently say the canine introduction went off without a hitch. Well, except that Schatzi ate all of G's food. And then she found a paper bag to tear up. Not so bad until she knocked over a potted plant on the deck. And tried to steal dinner off the table. Then also stole G's dog bed....

I do hope we get invited back again.

*Perhaps presumptious, but I went ahead and used the plural form, assuming that I do indeed have more than one lone reader. Hopeful.