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Man's best friend but worst wingman

November 15, 2011|By Ana Fernatt, For RedEye

People say the dog is man's best friend. With the way men melt for a cute pooch like a Slurpee in the sun, I've got to believe it. My dog, Figaro, is good at reeling in the bachelors, all right, and having men approach my dog first makes me less likely to run away in nervous terror.

Yet there is a problem: Figaro is a horrible wingman. A good wingman will get the sexy singles interested and then pass the torch at the appropriate moment. Figaro, on the other hand, can't quite figure out the right time to let me take over. In fact, he's got the absolute wrong time down to a science. He worked for that attention, so he intends to keep it!

Scruffy, leggy and striking, he looks like the type of dog that would be your best friend in a cartoon. He is the pure embodiment of playful, and I'm told he looks like me in puppy form: unusual and mischievous. Even his name is memorable and fancy, though it is meant to make me laugh when I exclaim the "Barber of Seville" refrain "Figaro! Figaro! Figaro!" to scold him.

When I first brought Figaro home, I joked with my mom that I was going to use this puppy to hook a man. She took one look at the little mutt wearing his signature bow tie and said, "Not that dog." Little did she know how magnetic men would find my pup. I can't walk around the block without being stopped four or five times. Guys will grab their girlfriends' arms while passing and gasp, "Look at that dog!" It's unreal.

Each time, Figaro thinks he has found his new best friend: two more hands to pet him, someone new to give him treats. What he hasn't quite realized is that sometimes there is private playtime that his puppy tail is not invited to join.

When I'm trying to snuggle up to my new dude and my petite pup wants to sit on my date's head, there is no Sade album or plate of oysters that can rescue that mood. I have literally woken up in the middle of the night with this dog standing on my chest, his nose pinned against mine. Just for kicks.

The last dog I had was an elderly cocker spaniel that would insist on plunking herself between my man friend and me while we tried to watch movies on the couch. There would be no funny business on her watch!

Both game-wrecking dogs were birthday presents from my parents—a suspicious trend. I think my dad gave me this dog in lieu of personally holding post outside of my apartment.

Last week, Figaro pooped on my pillowcase. Well, I guess not on MY pillowcase, but rather the empty one lying next to me—the one that I hope a man's head will at some point occupy. This is not going to go over well for my single life.


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