When I wrote this, I’d been dumped for all of of half a week, and my very old dog (who later died that year) was 130 miles away. All I wanted was to get out of the house I’d been sitting in with freelance and shattered expectations for the last few days and walk along the waterfront with a dog. For money.
And I swear to you, that pit bull lay down in the street and refused to go towards the shore. She insisted we head towards the more populated Bedford Ave.
Anyway, a pretty good dog. I hope she found a loving home.
Asylum New York had me hang out with a brindle-colored pitbull to see if sketchy pick-up artist techniques actually work. I’m pondering an entire series, including wearing a stupid hat and having my nephew run up to strange women and say “You look just like my dead mommy!”
Can I tell you a secret? I just wanted to walk a dog. It’s been a rough month. I would have adopted Mango in two seconds if I 1) didn’t belong to a labrador in CT already 2) were allowed to have a pet in my apartment, and 3) had enough money to feed myself, let alone a giant pit bull.
Everyone knows that women love men with dogs. But what if you don’t have the time, patience and willingness to scoop excrement off the sidewalk with a plastic bag every day for the next 7–10 years? You "borrow" a shelter dog, take it for a walk, and then return it a couple hours later.
That’s what some unscrupulous singles are doing as a means to meet women, according to the New York Post. But does it actually work? I decided to test it as unscientifically as possible.
I swing by BARC (Brooklyn Animal Rescue Coalition) on a breezy Tuesday evening. My companion is brought out, a barrel-chested pit bull mix named Mango. A ball of herringbone muscle explodes into me with all the reserve of a pinball, leaps up to eye level, and begins harmlessly nibbling my arm.
"She likes to chew," says the next fellow in line, who’s been here before. Sweet — she ignores personal boundaries and has a harmless fetish. This dog is going to make my quirks look good.
Keep reading to see if Mango made a good wingdog.
To test Mango’s skills, I’ve barred myself from starting a conversation unless the dog makes an opening for me. We’re trying to gauge how much interest this pooch can raise, and it wouldn’t be right for me to distort the experiment with smooth opening lines like, "You know, I can eat an entire slice of pizza in one bite. What, this? Oh, it’s a dog …"
I plan to take Mango west to the park where there’s always someone enjoying the view of Manhattan, but after a few steps she shows her best trick: passive resistance. When Mango doesn’t want to go somewhere, she drops flat on the ground, daring you to drag her in full view of the people who just entrusted her to your care. I count on them to forgive my gentle nudge, since their dog is now prone in the middle of the street.
She has no problem staying upright when we venture northeast, which is where all the dames are, so that’s one point for the dog. Before long, we’re caroming down Havemayer, Metropolitan and Driggs, but what women we pass don’t give Mango much of a glance. The ones who do are escorting feebler canines and avoid my awesome pit bull. Here’s a rule: If a dog weighs under 10 lbs., it’s a cat until it proves itself otherwise.
Mango and I drag each other onto Bedford Ave. with no female interaction; it’s clearly time to give her a push. We encounter a cute brunette and her dog Zoey, so I ask her permission to let the dogs meet and greet. They sniff each other’s intimate parts while I take the more subtle path of inquiring about Zoey’s breed, given her unusually large ears. Things are going so well, I’m about to introduce myself, when something makes Zoey snap. The suddenly snarling pup gets pulled away from us. I decide this is not Mango’s fault, because to admit so would be admitting my dog is as charming yet socially inept as I am.
Bedford is definitely the spot for this ploy, rife with people getting home from work or going out to dinner. Finally, women are admiring the dog, and one shapely blonde even throws an arm out to pet Mango, but is instantly gone. I stop a couple of girls in leather jackets and Ray Bans, and ask them to take our picture. Opportunity is there if you’re willing to make it, but I’ve already kept Mango out past curfew.
We return to BARC, unburdened by the phone numbers of Brooklyn beauties, but we had fun. Walking a pooch might not open doors with all women, but it’s a great way to approach ladies with other dogs, often at 35 mph.