Sorry, dog, you’re not getting any

For some reason, probably because I was a Black Widow who craftily murdered her husbands or a saucy plundering pirate wench in a past life, the Universe is punishing me now in the dating department. I have inexplicably gone on dates with multiple guys (relax, not at the same time—those aren’t “dates”) who hate dogs.

Now it’s not exactly a secret that I love dogs. I love dogs more than people, which is why I don’t go to parties unless I know there will be a dog there to hang out with. I’m pretty up front on dating sites that I rescue dogs, usually special needs dogs, and that any guy I date has to accept that at any given time I am 17% covered in dog hair and my dog may have licked my lips right before you. These ground rules are laid out pretty early on. Apparently, I need to reduce it to writing like a full legal disclosure and have it translated into 14 languages including Esperanto to ensure that the dating party understands before wasting my time and the last shred of sanity I’m holding onto like it’s the last piece of chocolate in the office.

And yet, I feel like some guys just figure they can fake it online, and I will be so awestruck at their presence when we actually go on a date, that I will accept the fact they are dog haters with tiny dicks. Not that they get that far for me to know. But I’m assuming because I follow Neil DeGrasse Tyson on Twitter that it is a scientific rule that men who don’t love dogs have tiny penises. Exhibit A – Donald Trump.

There was the guy who shot his dog in the head.  (
There was the guy who paced outside my house because he didn’t like my Inga barking at him, and he wouldn’t listen to me that his creepy pacing made her bark more. (
Thankfully, the Serb liked Inga, more than me. So he was worth the money. (

Now I had the Michael Vick defender. Apparently, there are some people who think a college football career is more important than committing federal crimes.
“But he didn’t actually kill any dogs.”
“Ok, so if I watch my neighbor torture and kill his mother with a crowbar that I bought and let him use, and then let him bury her body in my backyard to cover it up because his yard has leaching fields he can’t disturb, does that not make me an accessory to murder?”

I couldn’t even believe this jackass was arguing with me. Even when confronted with that brilliant analogy. He was all “If it don’t fit, you must acquit.” Then he tried to tell me it was only a misdemeanor, not a felony. No, the asshole did time, it was a felony. I’M A LAWYER. I paid $100,000 on an education that won’t be paid off for another 20 years, so clearly I know things! Not wanting to drop the subject, or accept that I am always right, he committed the social faux pas of reading me the Michael Vick Wikipedia page, which about 6 minutes in, confirmed that I was right.

And yet, somehow, I was still sitting in a bar where the dick didn’t even order an appetizer and made three trips to the bathroom in 90 minutes. Maybe he had a tiny bladder to go with the tiny dick. I didn’t storm out, even when I found out he didn’t really have the job he told me about, he was a manager at a chain restaurant. I stayed even though he argued with me that Bernie Sanders is a socialist and socialism is evil. Maybe I was desperate enough that I thought I could still sleep with him and overlook all the crazy “Ron Paul is God” commentary. I was out of batteries. But no. In the end, I draw the line at animal cruelty.

The kicker is that he texted a week later and wanted a second date. No, I’m good. I wasted my one date for the year on you, and I can’t run the risk that you actually know Michael Vick with the way you defend him (like Paul Ryan defending Ayn Rand’s fucked-up dystopian fantasy porn) and will kidnap and sell off my dog to be fight bait.

Maybe I need to find a zookeeper. Do they have a site like Single Christian Zookeepers Only?

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