ARR 1988 - Flipbook - Page 130
Meeting Mr. Right At Obedience Training
Born in the year of the Berlin Olympics (look it up if you really care),
married when Sputnik splashed into the headlines, and divorced just after
the ideal-shattering assassinations of Kennedy and King, I am still single
and searching. Joan Collins and Liz Taylor notwithstanding, I am still
attractive, alert, and lusty. Granted, there have been relationships these
past twenty years but none that culminated in commitment.
Single bars and college campuses seem to attract my daughter's .
generation while bingo parlors and seniors' events are inhabited by that of
my parents' (or those with their set of values). So where, I wondered, could
I meet interesting, unattached, strong yet sensitive middle-age men?
Looking for love at the SPCA, I had adopted Benson two weeks earlier.
Part Afghan, part Golden Retriever, part Chow, this adoring, mischievous,
cooper-hued ball of fur and I had fallen in love at first sight, but friends and
family didn't appreciate his four-paw high-fives. It was time for obedience
training. Perhaps a perfect place to meet someone special!
A man who loves a dog has some soul, I thought. A man who wants help
socializing his dog has some sense. I could judge the men there by the kind
of dogs they have and by the way they treat their pets. The speed with which
the dog learns his lessons might reflect the intelligence of his owner.
A couple ofphone calls led me to the right place. It had to be an evening
class ... no men during the day. It had to be the best trainer in town ... I wanted
a man with class. It had to be non-abusive training... ! wanted a man who
was nonviolent. My reservation was made.
The day of our first class was filled with anticipation. Even Benson
seemed to sense that something exciting was brewing. His feathery tail
knocked an ashtray off the coffee table in its exuberance and he had one more
accident than usual on my beige carpet.
I wanted to look good. Heading for the local drug store, I picked up a
set of press-on fingernails. I had never had much luck growing my own, and
I remembered, many years ago, my ex-husband looking at me admiringly
and saying,
"You look perfect except for your nails."
The ads made this method look like instant glamor and I felt I could use
all the glamor I could get. I carefully applied my make-up: not too much for
such an event, but enough to cover the worst flaws. I donned my tight, stonewashed jeans and a form-fitting T-shirt. Although I knew I had better wear
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