Cold

If you bring home a puppy, it’s probably going to require more attention than you expect, it will leave behind some messes, and it’s going to whimper when you walk away. You can tell the puppy ahead of time that it’s a temporary thing. It won’t matter. You can ask the puppy to avoid becoming too attached. He’ll just yap and rub on your ankles. Still, if you like puppies, you must selfishly lose any guilt they toss your way.

An exceptionally fit woman, freshly divorced with two children, thumbed her iPhone while rolling her eyes in disgust.

“What’s up, buttercup?”

“Ugh. I’m so tired of babysitting. I guess I should know better than to hook up with boys twenty years younger.”

“Twenty years? Really?”

“Yep. I know—I’m kind of giving away my age.”

“… and your pussy.”

“WHAT?”

“Let me finish … and you’re possibly the hottest sixty-year-old I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m forty five, goofball.”

“Ah. Sorry. I didn’t get a proper reading on your elbows.”

*ding*

“Jesus. He’s been texting me all night. He wants to meet up.”

“You’d be similarly frustrated if he didn’t text you at all, right?”

“No. I want him when I want him. He’s just a toy to me. Now, he’s starting to develop feelings and becoming needy.”

“Isn’t that natural?”

“Not when I told him upfront this was just going to be a fling and he’ll never meet my children.”

*ding*

“Wow. Why don’t you give the poor fella a break and invite him over?”

“Nope. Tonight I’m out with the girls. Maybe later, if I get the urge, I’ll hook up with him.”

“Damn. You’re cold.”

“I was married for fifteen years. This is my time.”

*ding*

 “Brrr.”

Her married friend enjoys the escapades. It’s vicarious joy when good and another reason to stay married when bad.

“So, what do you think of your friend’s little pet?”

“He’s hot.”

“How about from the neck up?”

“A bit needy.”

“What’s your advice to Miss Cooler?”

“She should have fun with him until he gets too needy, and then move on.”

*ding*

“Four texts in five minutes must be crossing the needy line, approaching psychosis.”

“Yep. He would have been done after the second one if it were me.”

“You do realize what’s going to happen here, right?”

“What?”

“She’s going to meet an age-appropriate man who won’t play the please-love-me game, she’ll wonder why he won’t chase her, and then she’ll become the puppy.”

“Hm.”

*ding*

“In the meantime, I guess puppy love is better than no love.”

This dating-out-of-your-decade thing is a recent phenomenon for women. They’re not very good at it. Men have been doing it since Adam. Perhaps I’ll offer a course in puppy care. They’ll call me The Lovepuppy Whisperer. Puppy owners will leash their pets and come to Dr. Phil’s office for training. I’ve got my rolled up newspaper and spray bottle ready. If the puppies are too difficult, I’ll euthanize those fuckers and offer my services at a steep discount.

Don't Name the Puppy

I’ve learned about a new strategy some women employ while dating: Don’t name the puppy until you’re sure you want to adopt him. Interesting. Here I thought I was being referred to as “What’s-His-Name,” “Author-Guy,” “Dude,” and “Pal” because she was using terms of endearment. Now I find out she doesn’t name me because she’s not sure she wants to keep me. Pshaw!

I recently overheard women talking about boys they are juggling using obscure references.

• “Boy number three is almost out of the running. He’s a horrible kisser. I’m going to start calling him Slobberpuss.”
• “You have got to check out the body on body-shop guy.”
• "Lawyer guy picked me up in his convertible. It totally fucked my hair for the night.”
• “Toehead dude is driving me nuts with all his surfing and dragging sand into my bed.”
• “I wish I could train skinny boy to go down as often as old guy does.”
• “Where did boat-shoes guy take you? Let me guess: Sailing?”
• “Cocoa Puff may be a keeper. Dark and lovely works for me.”
• “Mommy’s Boy needs to find a job. I’m tired of hanging out with his parents.”
• “Marathon Man is unfortunately a sprinter in the sack. Thank God for vibrators.”
• “Joel asked if I would go to Cabo with him. What should I do?”

WHAT? OMG ... YOU JUST NAMED THE PUPPY!

Oh, calm your ass down there, Sassy-Pants. You don’t want to be referred to like the Augusta Golf Course, do you? (Something along the lines of “Hole 1,” “Hole 2,” “Trap,” “Hazard,” etc. You get the picture.) The boy’s parents agonized over finding a name for the lad, he deserves to hear it. You can control yourself, can’t you? Stop it with the “Honey” and “Baby” nonsense. If it gives you indigestion to speak the name Joel, get some fucking Tums and self-restraint, will you?

I don’t see how dating relates to pet adoption anyway. My two cats were named before I claimed them. (In fact, they were named “Louis” and “Peter.” What jackass names a cat something like that? I bet his name was Dick.) I renamed them the second I got them home. I didn’t go around calling them “Puss” and “Purrbag” in fear that naming them would make them keepers. No matter what I named them, if they peed on my keyboard their asses would have gone back to the shelter. OK, I hope your dates don’t pee on your keyboard, but you get the picture.

Date all the men you desire, Sugar. Say their names often and please try not to confuse them, especially while dancing horizontally. Call me “Phil,” my love. If you refer to me as “Guy with the Prison Cunt (AKA Goatee),” you get points for creativity and no more free wine.