As the Fur Flies.... Meditations on Dog Hair

“Anyone want some dog fur?” I asked my Facebook friends, “ I've got enough to stuff a pillow with! Bentley is shedding his winter coat all over my house.” Now, I intended this to be funny, but several of my friends took it seriously—not my offer, but the concept. Apparently this is something that people have actually done historically. “Our ancestors used everything they had -- and then some,” commented one of my music teacher colleagues. “My sister spun yarn that included dog hair from my nephew's dog in it,” my old college roommate posted. A quick Google search online showed me that indeed even today people are making sweaters from dog fur, as well as scarves, hats, mittens and purses. “Dog fur can be 80% warmer than wool”, one such website claimed. Who knew?

Not being a crafty person, the dog fur was not a benefit to me at all, but only a major housekeeping headache. I teach piano lessons in my home, and every day I need to tidy my house (at least in a cursory way) before my students arrive. I was sweeping up HUGE piles of dog fur. Probably enough to stuff a gallon baggie every day. Every day as I swept, Bentley stood over the pile of fur, right in my way. He seemed proprietary about his hair, not wanting me to push it into the dustpan and discard it in the trash. As I tossed it wastefully away I thought, “Surely at least it's biodegradable.”

I worried about Bentley's shedding. I have lived with dogs my whole life, but I've never had one shed this much. It started near his hind quarters. I could see the fur that was coming loose, grasp it and pull it out easily. What if Bentley had some weird disease?

I stopped in the natural pet supply store that is in my neighborhood, and checked with Lisa, the store owner, who is very knowledgeable about all things dog. “He's 'blowing his coat',” she told me. She explained that certain dogs shed their seasonal coats at spring time and in the fall in a major way. She said not to worry, unless I started to see bald spots.

I went home and perused the web. On one site, there was a picture of a large, black Newfoundland lying on the floor. Beside him, was a pile of thick, black fur that had been shaped into a dog almost as big as he was. On this entertaining web site, a family described their battle with the dog fur—how it burned in their candle wax, broke their vacuum cleaner, and how they even found a frozen artifact in an ice cube. According to the American Kennel club, it's a common misconception to think that long haired dogs shed more than short haired dogs. Poodles, who have quite a bit of hair, hardly shed at all. The determining factor is not the length of the hair, but the fact that the fur is “double coated” and has an undercoat meant to be discarded at the ends of winter and summer. Bentley is soft and furry, but certainly not as long-haired as a Collie or Golden Retriever. His face looks like a Beagle, his body is dotted and freckled with copper like a Blue Tick Hound, and I now know his fur is double coated like a Newfoundland.

Lisa had recommended a special dog brush called the “furminator.” She assured me that if I used it once a week, I would never obsessively sweep dog hair from my floor again. Only problem was the “furminator” cost around fifty dollars. “Fifty dollars for a dog brush??? You've got to be kidding!” I exclaimed. But the “furminator” is apparently no ordinary dog brush. She showed me that it has a special razor that gets under the outer layer, to the layer of fur underneath that is shedding. It made sense to me on a certain level, but being the self-employed/under-employed person that I am, a fifty dollar dog brush was not in my budget. Now, I know that for some folks dropping fifty bucks is like dropping quarters into a parking meter—but not for me.

I continued to just let Bentley lose his fur the old-fashioned way. I should probably have at least invested in a cheap dog brush at Wal-Mart, but I hate going there so much that I kept putting it off. In the meantime, I designated one of my old hair brushes as a dog brush. It did the trick. I tried to brush off as much fur as possible once or twice a day to save the trouble of sweeping it from all corners of the house and gathering it up. I also got in the habit of plucking off loose fur as we went on our daily walk through the park. I would look at his hindquarters and his tail, and regularly groom him by hand. As I gently pulled off the soft tufts, an image came to mind of chimps picking fleas off each other at the zoo. I've always thought it was very sweet how they do that.

As the weeks wore on, I was tempted to buy the “furminator”. Several of my friends who saw my problem gave me their opinions that I was being cheap. “I would do it,” they told me. Yet I stubbornly believed that eventually, if I let nature take its course, I could save myself fifty bucks.

After several weeks of continued hair loss, Bentley started to look like he had a Mohawk. His hair was thinning up the sides, but still had a thick ridge on the top of his back. Could this really be normal?

It was reassuring to me one day to see another woman brushing her dog at the park, presumably so she wouldn't have to deal with the fur in her house. She sat on a bench with her Golden Retriever and stroked and stroked. I could see the hair drifting and accumulating beside the bench. “Good, I'm not the only one,” I thought. But what happens to those balls and tufts of fur released at the park? Were we littering? Or would it just magically fly away somewhere? Or become invisible? I did feel slightly guilty. Sort of like when Bentley poops accidentally in someone's yard.

On the first morning of spring, Bentley and I walked hand in leash through the park. As we followed the trail past the bench, I saw what looked like a large number of cobwebs-- glistening with dew-- in the grass. But when I got closer, I saw it was actually dog fur. It was no longer fluffy and puffy. The wet dog hair looked like bejeweled gossamer threads clinging to the shiny, wet grass in the early morning sun.

Later that afternoon, I sat out on my back deck enjoying heavenly sunshine and warmest temperatures yet-- in the 70's. I was brushing Bentley with one hand, and talking to my mother on the phone in the other. As I gathered large fluffy balls of fur from the brush and let them fly in the warm spring breeze, my mother told me about the late season winter storm in Kansas-- five inches of snow and frigid temperatures. She spoke of snow still falling, as I watched the dog fur roll gently across my deck.

Every day, more and more fur has come off. It's been a fascinating process to watch the parts of the coat that are loosening work their way up from Bentley's hindquarters, to his back, and now up near his neck. The fluffier, softer hair has mostly been shed, and Bentley is now working on the more wiry hair that coats his upper back. There is less fur to sweep up now—probably more like a quart-sized baggie instead of a gallon size. When my teenage son, Noah, came home after staying at his dad's house for a few days, he remarked, “He looks like a dog again.” The weird Mohawk and most of the loosening tufts are gone, and Bentley's coat is now more uniform, albeit thinner. Could we be almost finished? Well, maybe for now...

I fully expect that he will “blow his coat” again in the fall, so I have that to look forward to. Maybe by then I'll be able to mentally prepare myself to invest in the “furminator.” In the meantime, I can make it my science project to visit the park every day and try to discover what happens to the drifting, discarded fur.

Piano Lessons

NOTE: Names and some details have been changed.

In the late afternoons, when yellow school buses roll down the road, I turn into a piano teacher. I bring to a close whatever else I've been doing—whether writing, doing yard work, walking the dog, getting stuff together for dinner later on, or wasting time on the computer. I tell my dog “Friends are going to come,” put the tea kettle on, and begin my ritual of sweeping the wooden floors. I find the mindless motions of the broom relaxing. I move out whatever else is on my mind, dump the dustpan, and begin to think about which of my young friends is coming today, and what we are working on together.

Today I have my two youngest students, Tyler and Ellie—ages five and six respectively. I only recently started taking students this young, and am using a new method with Tyler. The book teaches musical concepts at a slower pace than I usually go, and is filled with games and little songs. It's more about process than performance. It comes with a CD. I have to study it for a few minutes, to get ready for Tyler.

I need to give my dog a treat, hopefully something that will occupy him during the afternoon of teaching, so that he won't jump on the couch, and start tossing the pillows around distracting me and my students. I pull the Kong stuffed with peanut butter out of the freezer—the blue plastic toy that is hollow inside, and has a small hole. Trying to lick the peanut butter out should keep Bentley busy for quite some time.

I set up the little TV table next to the piano and pull up a chair. The kettle whistles insistently and I pour the boiling water over my Egyptian Licorice tea. Today's words of wisdom from the tag on the tea bag reads, “Travel light, live light, be the light.” I ask the spirit to guide me to be the best teacher I can possibly be today.

The floors are swept, my teaching area is ready, the dog taken care of, I've made a lesson plan, I've poured tea as well as a glass of cold water for myself. And just in time, here is the car pulling up in the driveway, and Tyler stepping out. “Hi, Ty!” I call out, “I'm happy to see you.” And I am.

“Do you know Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?” I ask him as we are seated together at the piano. “No. That's why I'm here. To learn to play the piano,” he says proudly and earnestly. He knows the tune, of course, just not how to play it yet—a feat that he masters quickly—as I mark the C and G keys lightly in pencil, and showed him how to start. Tyler is a musician inside. I can tell already. He loves music, sings beautifully on key and is drawn to the piano. He has a strong desire to learn to play.

It's interesting to me that these younger students, who I resisted teaching for so long, are the ones who have been bringing so much spontaneous joy into my house lately. Ellie, age 6, has so much enthusiasm that she has difficulty sitting still on the piano bench for very long. She wants to get up and beat the drums, pet the dog, look at the cat on the back porch. But despite her wiggly restlessness, I can see the talented musician inside finding expression. Her beat on the drum is quick but steady. She shows me how she can play “Doe, a deer” by ear on my wooden xylophone. As she leaves my house at the end of her lesson, Ellie said “I'm so glad my mom signed me up for piano lessons. Not just because you're my teacher and I get to come here. I just really like the piano.” My heart sings to hear these words. “I really like teaching you,” I tell Ellie, as I walk her out to my driveway and her mother's waiting van.

Not all of my students are so enthusiastic. Yesterday, Sam spent half his lesson time arguing with me about how he didn't want to play a particular passage again. “No. I'll do it at home. Don't make me do it now. Please.” Sam is a master at “eating the clock”. He takes a long time in the bathroom, and spends several minutes petting the dog when he first comes in. Of all my students, Sam is the most distracted by the dog. Yet I think his adoration of Bentley has helped our relationship, and given him new motivation to come to my house. Teaching piano is about more than music making, after all. It is about developing a relationship with each individual child. Although we spend way too much time arguing, and I have to humor and persuade Sam and bribe him with gold star stickers or ending the lesson 2 minutes early, we do manage all right together. He IS making progress. His Malaguena is sounding confident, if a bit uneven rhythmically, and it is ready for performance at the upcoming “piano party.” Focusing after a long day of school is just sometimes torturous to him. And Sam has some sensitivities that my other students don't have. He can't stand to be interrupted with little suggestions while he's playing something, and he hates it when I sing along.

Fortunately, the challenging lesson with Sam is followed by a visit from Hannah. She is the student I have the longest relationship with . Hannah came to me when she was seven, and she is now seventeen. She is preparing an arrangement of WC Handy's St. Louis Blues to play at the piano party. She takes this piece of music and makes it her own—adding her own personal fortes and diminuendos, which she is clearly feeling, as I see her body swaying to the music, hear her soul pouring forth through the notes. Years ago, I never would have predicted that of all the students who started around the same time as Hannah, that she would be the one to stick it out. Others were faster learners with more agile fingers. Hannah's progress has been slow and steady. But she has a deep love of music. It is extremely gratifying to me to think that I have played a role in bringing out this part of her identity. She enjoys singing, and participates in high school chorus. She is just starting to learn to play a selection from Phantom of the Opera, and I want to encourage her to try to accompany her beautiful voice with the piano chords.

Erica doesn't practice at all, and is always losing and forgetting her piano music. We have go over the same concepts of note reading again and again. Yet when she finds a song that she likes, she immediately memorizes it and sits right down and plays it. She delights in playing simple duets with me like Home on the Range or Oh Susannah and asks to do it again and again.

The most satisfying thing about being a piano teacher, is hearing this joy in music emerge in my students. My hope is that this desire to express themselves musically will last for their whole lives, as it has for me. It's not so much that I'm giving them this gift, it's more like I'm helping them discover it inside themselves and draw it out.

There is a force greater than the musician, that sometimes speaks through the music itself. It is the music moving through the musician. On those rare occasions when it happens, the musician is merely the channel. I think about my own recent experience accompanying a “cosmic dance” class, in the beautifully designed Eurythmy room at Emerson Waldorf School.

Sunlight shone through the muslin curtains on the polished, wooden floors. The dancers lifted their arms and gestured, as they wove around the circle. I was playing a piano passage from one of Liszt's Consolations. I had practiced it many times and had always thought it lovely—but suddenly in that particular moment, it all made sense to me in a new way. The chromatic harmonies and modulations gave it a haunting quality—yet I had a clear sense of the arc of the music, of where it was going and its hushed resolve. When the music ended, the notes hung in the air, the dancers holding the stillness. The spell of the music still lingered, like the dust particles in the sunlight, although the sound had faded.

I feel this same magic, when my student Mollie, a shy high school student, plays The Moonlight Sonata. She adds her own touches—a special crescendo, an accelerando, revealing the passion that is in her soul. I hear it in Ben, a fifth grade boy, energetically pounding out the Theme from Star Wars, playing forte and confidently. I hear it when 11-year old Ryan, enters my studio, quickly drops his books on the floor and without even taking off his coat, immediately launches into the Beatle's We Can Work It Out , grooving to the beat.

The smell of chicken roasting in the oven permeates the house, and I am hungry. But I so enjoy teaching my one adult student, Laura. I notice how her scales have improved as her fingers move agilely and rhythmically up and down the keys. When I hear her soft and delicate pianissimos in Schumann's Of Strange Lands and People, contrasting with the warmth of the melodic line, I hear the music coming to life through her. Laura's lesson ends with a lively, accented Hungarian folk dance tune by Bartok—which she is now playing at a nice, fast tempo, the best she's ever played it. She thanks me as we walk to the door together.

Laura gets into her car and shuts the door, just as my teenage son pulls up next to her in the driveway and enters the house with his heavy backpack. I greet Noah and ask about his day. I fold up the TV tray and slide the chair I've been sitting on back under the table. I let Bentley out briefly, then feed him. The roast chicken is almost ready to come out of the oven. I toss the salad. I draw the curtains. I pour myself a glass of wine. With these gestures, I officially slip out of my piano teaching role.

Valentine's Day

My dog and I were on our usual walk home from the dog park, quickly rounding the dangerous blind curve on Dimmocks Mill Road, where the road crosses under the railroad trestle and narrows. I don't believe a car and pedestrian could possibly co-exist here-- let alone one being pulled by an enthusiastic young Beagle-mix dog. I always hold my breath, and try to urge Bentley through as quickly as possible.

Just as we made it under the overpass safely and started to cross Eno St, we spotted another human and dog pair right in our path. An oversized Beagle-ish dog barked loudly at us and strained at his leash. Though he was larger and tri-colored, his face—with it's brown and white mask, cocked ears and quizzical sweetness, looked a lot like my Bentley's. His bark was a loud hound, howling call—and Bentley responded in kind. At the other end of the leash, holding on for dear life with one hand, while he clutched his cell phone with the other, was a short man with a shock of gray hair protruding from a navy stocking cap, who looked about my age.

I tried to keep my distance, pulling Bentley back, changing our course a little to go further to the right. But the dogs were both straining and pulling towards each other-- wagging tails, baying and answering each other. The man lowered his phone for a moment and called out, “He's actually friendly, if they want to say hello. He just has a loud bark.” So I brought Bentley over.

The two dogs began to joyfully try to snuffle under each others tails, which meant that they were walking in circles and getting their leashes tangled. “Mom, I gotta go now. I'll call you right back”, the man said into his phone.

He told me his dog was on a 7-day trial adoption from the shelter, to see if he would work out—before he officially adopts him. “That's exactly what I've just been through with Bentley”, I told him. “I got him at Paws 4Ever”, I added. “That's where Duncan came from too”, he replied. I realized that that name and even the dog himself were familiar to me. I now remembered seeing Duncan at the shelter on that fateful day when I'd only had eyes for Bentley.

Duncan and Bentley made a cute pair, with their Beagle faces and barks, their playful jumps and lunges. Most likely they recognized each other from the shelter. They seemed to be having a joyful reunion. We two humans stood together clinging to our leashes and conversing, trying not to get tangled up, watching to make sure that nothing turned aggressive or overly perverted in that doggie way.

He said so far Duncan was doing pretty well. The dog had proven trustworthy in the house during the day when he's at work. I told him Bentley gets into the trash and chews the table leg. “Other than that, he's pretty good when I'm gone.” I laughed. “But fortunately, I have a home business, so I'm around a lot.” I told him that it had been very important to me to find just the right dog—one who was gentle with children and wouldn't bark or scare the steady stream of kids and parents walking in and out of my house for piano lessons. Bentley had passed the test and I was certain that he was The One.

My new acquaintance seemed less certain about his dog, although he was strongly leaning towards making their connection official. “He has a really loud bark, and he pulls very hard,” he complained. “He's a little bigger than what I was looking for. But very sweet.”

He told me he's just discovered that Duncan can't be walked off leash. He tried it the other day. “Everything was fine at first, but then he got on a scent and ran off with his nose to the ground. I stood there and yelled 'Duncan! Duncan!', but it didn't do any good at all.” He told me he'd panicked because he thought he'd lost the dog—for good and it wasn't even technically his dog.

I told him I'd tried the same experiment with Bentley a couple of days ago with similar results, although Bentley didn't run off so far that I was truly worried. “At least I was prepared for that,” I told him, after years of living with my old purebred Beagle, Maggie. Maggie would “come”, “sit” and “stay” reliably at home, but if I took her for a walk and let her off leash, forget it. “A Beagle's nose takes priority over everything and it overrides the ears--- either that or they're just choosing not to listen”, I complained. “I wasted lots of hours and energy fruitlessly yelling at Maggie—demanding that she come when she was called. Finally, I just accepted her Beagle nature and quit trying to call her.” I had taken more risks back then, I told him, walking her loose in the woods, losing her to the scent of a deer or a rabbit and letting her run freely after it.

Sooner or later Maggie would wake from her nose trance and realize she was being left behind. Then she would follow MY scent trail to catch up with me.

“One day, I thought I'd lost her for good.” I told him. We were walking in Duke Forest and Maggie disappeared, as usual—this time for way longer than she'd ever done before. I kept retracing my steps, calling and calling her to no avail. Finally I walked back to my car—where I was extremely relieved to find her waiting for me. She was UNDER the vehicle—safe from swiftly passing traffic, and out of the way of other people who might think she was a stray. Maggie was very smart that way.

“ But anyway”, I told him, “I'm just not up for that kind of stress anymore. Bentley is going to be a leash dog.” He said he had come to the same conclusion with Duncan, after just one try—without going through all of the wild experiments that I'd tried with Maggie, back in the day. “Maybe age gives you automatic understanding about risk versus security,” I suggested, “You can reach the same conclusion without having to actually experience the risk, as you do when you are younger.” He nodded agreement.

So here I am-- having this conversation with this man that I have just met, as if we are old friends. It is Valentine's Day. He seems to be my age. We are both standing there in our wool hats and winter coats, our Beagly dogs tugging at their leashes. He hasn't spoken the words “we” or “wife” or “girlfriend” or “partner”. He has a friendly face and smiling eyes. He is wearing gloves, so I can't tell if he's wearing a ring or not.

We finally introduce ourselves instead of just our dogs. His name is John, and it turns out he lives only a few blocks away from me, and owns a little mill house—very similar to mine. There are so many little coincidences: Our dogs look alike, and we have both just adopted them from the same shelter. We both live in sturdy little mill houses built in the 1930's in the same neighborhood. We seem to be of similar age, and it's possible that we are both single, although I'm too shy to ask him that.

I give him enough hints about me that he'll be able to find me again if he wants to. I tell him where I live, and what time of day I usually walk Bentley. “Well, nice to meet you. We'll bump into each other again sometime, I'm sure,” he says. This seems to be a dismissal. He needs to continue his walk and call his mother back. I smile and say “I hope so.” I tell him I think Duncan's a sweet dog and that he should keep him. “You think so?” he asks. Then he calls out “Thank you. Yes, I think he's a keeper” as I walk away.

Will I see him again? I wonder as I walk away and head up the Nash St. hill towards home. Maybe I should have pressed for more information? Perhaps tried to arrange a doggie play date? Asked for his phone number? I hadn't wanted to seem overly eager. But hopefully, we will “bump into” each other again. Not only do we hang out at the same dog park, we both have four free obedience training classes coming up at Paws 4 Ever with our new adopted family members. And we both frequent the new neighborhood natural pet store and enjoy talking with its owner.

If I get really desperate, I could ask Lisa about him. She makes a point of really talking to her customers and their dogs and learning things about them. She surely has his name and address in her data base—and perhaps she would even give it to me, if I told her that I hoped Bentley and Duncan could have a doggie play date. Well, asking for the phone number is probably going a bit too far—but a little sleuthing couldn't hurt.

All I can do is believe that if it is Meant to Be, it will be. He crossed my path on Valentine's Day. That makes for a nice, romantic “how we met” story, anyway. My friend Laurece tells me that all couples who have good and lasting relationships, have an interesting “how we met” story that they enjoy telling. This certainly would qualify.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Several weeks have passed and the cold weather has given way to a warm and beautiful spring. Though I walk Bentley in the neighborhood often, and frequent the dog park regularly, we have yet to run into John and Duncan again. I don't think I'd even recognize John if I saw him without his dog, or his winter coat and hat for that matter. Yet, even if nothing else ever happens other than this one conversation on a street corner, it still leads me to believe that there is hope in the world. I can just be on my normal walk, when suddenly someone new crosses my path. Perhaps if I'm open to such moments there may be new and wonderful possibilities of all kinds.

I Don't Feel the Chemistry's There

The bar and grill where we meet was once part of an old cigarette factory. American Tobacco “Campus” strikes me as a really odd name for a place once teeming with blue collar workers. Smoking is outlawed here-- although the sweet smell of fresh tobacco still lingers in the air molecules. The taproom, with its high ceilings and exposed brick, features craft and import beers. Sitting across the high wooden table from me is Phil Goldman, my date from Match.com.

He places his hand over his stein of Belgian beer, then lifts it, gesturing as he talks. I look at his small, slender thumbs and recall what my friend Joyce told me, that an average man's penis is twice the size of his thumb. Of course, size doesn't matter. No, not at all—I tell myself. But I guess I should pay attention to what he's saying, instead of speculating about the tininess of his organ.

Phil is talking about his recent trip to Germany, and how he wasn't brave enough to go anywhere by himself—without the friend that he was visiting. His friend worked a lot, so he didn't see very much of Germany other than the small business district within walking distance of his friend's apartment. He says he'd walk down the street and take pictures, but he didn't want to hop a bus or train by himself. Right away I know we're not on the same wavelength, since I love adventurous solo travel. I visited a friend in Germany myself a few years ago, and I delighted in riding trains and trolleys, climbing old castle walls and ambling along rivers while my friend was at work. But I shouldn't rule Phil out because of that. Come on, be open minded, I tell myself.

Phil may not be an adventurous traveler, and he may be only 5'4,” but he has a PHD and a decent job and he is local. He's a Nice Jewish Boy. These qualities make him “appropriate” for me---unlike “Honey I'm Home!”. That's the moniker of the man who emailed me last night saying he thought my profile was “very well written”. He is “stocky” and lives in Western Pennsylvania and listed his occupation as “Celtic Grail Quest”.

But I really should be paying attention. Phil is telling me that he went back to school in his early 40's to get his his PHD, and that that transformed his life. He still works for the Environmental Protection Agency, which is where he's always worked. He worked there for a dozen years before getting his PHD-- but then he was a lowly “technician”. Now he is a “controller”. This means he supervises a few people and earns more money. He says he's not exactly a “bigwig”, but is still quite pleased with his situation. He makes what he calls “a decent amount of money”. He talks about where he stands in relation to others—at work,financially, on his softball team. I get the feeling that he has classic short man's syndrome, that he is sizing up every situation to see if he passes muster.

Phil lives in North Raleigh in a house that he designed and built himself. It includes a large darkroom in the basement. He's into photography—real shutter photography—and he has his photos displayed in a local gallery, owned by a friend. He says he just does it for fun. He really doesn't care if he ever sells anything, and he doesn't understand why anyone would waste time promoting their art. “What if you are trying to make a living at it?” I ask. He snickers and tells me he feels sorry for anyone who does.

I guess he doesn't really get that I'm trying to make a living as an artist myself. A piano teacher, really—but very much needing to promote my work. But I don't discuss my financial situation with Phil. I don't want him to think I'm a gold digger. In all honesty, I'm not really looking for a sugar daddy, although I confess I would like to find someone to help me pay the bills. That's not so unreasonable, is it? I gather from his conversation that pretty much everyone Phil associates with drives a late model car, has a well paying job with health benefits, and enjoys fine dining on a regular basis.

I tell him a little about my life-- about my piano students and being a church musician, about learning Tai Chi, about my little mill house, about walking to Weaver Street Market. He responds that that all sounds “very Hillsborough”--by which he means Bohemian—which is unlike his North Raleigh lifestyle. He is interested in the old, abandoned cotton mill in Hillsborough and says he wants to photograph it before they turn it into condominiums.

The waitress arrives, bringing his gourmet burger, and my “pub salad”, asking if we'd like more beer. He says yes, but I decline, since I'm not sure who is paying. The beers are $4.50 each. I look across the table at him as he pecks at his burger, puts it down, and dabs his upper lip with his cloth napkin. He says he eats out almost every night. I say I rarely go out to eat.

He is impressed that I've worked in public radio, so we're able to fill some conversation time with that. Then we touch briefly on relationship history. Phil has never been married, but he did live with a woman once—a pharmacist who worked for Glaxo. I skim over my failed marriage—and talk at great length about my son, who graduates high school this year, about how cool he is—an athlete and a scholar.

I excuse myself and head to the ladies room—mainly just to take a break from the rather forced and awkward conversation. The check comes while I'm gone (as I'd kind of hoped it would), but it's just sitting there untouched. I spot it as I walk back to the table. He seems to be collecting himself, sitting up taller, as if he's ready to get up any minute. I politely offer to pay for my salad and my beer. Regrettably, he accepts my offer. Then he asks if I'd like to do something again sometime. It would be rude to say no, so I say, “Sure.” Why not? I mean I could see going to a concert with him or something. But I can't in my wildest dreams imagine anything romantic developing. I am earth and he is air. If I put my arms around him, I would smother him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

I get home and there is an email waiting from “Honey, I'm Home”. Oh no! He has googled “Vivi801”, the “handle” I only use for internet dating sites. He has found a posting I made to an E-harmony advice site—which I went to in desperation about a year ago. The holidays last year were a real low point for me. That was right after Dave ended our six month relationship because he “wasn't feeling attracted anymore.” I had posed the question: “If lots of men click on 'I don't feel the chemistry's there' when they close a match with me, is that E-harmony speak for 'you're fat and ugly'?” My fellow lonely hearts had advised me to “Get a new photo. Fast.”

“Jeez”, I write to “Honey”, “I can't believe my insecurities are the first thing you've learned about me”. “Yeah”, he replies a couple of hours later, “I almost feel like I came over to meet you for the first time, you didn’t answer the door, so I invited myself in only to see you running out of the shower in your elegant birthday suit”. Now that's down right creepy, I tell myself. Yet I answer his email anyway.

As the week progresses, I don't think too much about Phil—but I continue my correspondence with “Honey, I'm Home!” He tells me his real name is John and he is currently collecting unemployment after being laid off from a dot.com warehouse. I wonder if the “Celtic Grail Quest” listed as his occupation in his profile refers to the job search. He is very absorbed in his hobby, which is going to yard sales and collecting old DVDs, CDs, jewelry and musical instruments.

I google John O'Leary. There are not a lot of references, and all is consistent with what he's told me about himself in his emails. He's participated in a discussion about taxi driver rate hikes, and I see that he worked as a cabbie in the DC area for about ten years. There's a forum where he's asking questions about the value of a particular model of Jaguar and the metal it was made out of. This would be consistent with what he told me about his interest in “precious metals”. Also, I find a reference to a dialogue about a prescription drug called Paxil—but I'm not able to access the actual conversation, just the website that sells the drugs. The website's ad for Paxil says it's for OCD—obsessive/compulsive disorder. Could it be that his habit of collecting yard sale “treasures” is not an innocent hobby, but a demented obsession?

We discuss contra dancing, which is one of the interests we have both listed in our “about me” column online. He says he needs to lose some weight so he can “get back into the swing of things”. I tell my friend Joyce that while I don't mind “stocky”, I don't think I can live with anyone with a weight problem so serious he can't dance. Just how bad is his weight problem? I wonder. His profile photos are only head shots. What if he's more than “stocky”? What if he's “obese”?

The weight issue coupled with the yard sale habit are making me feel queasy about John. Where does he store all those DVD's, CD's, musical instruments and toy pianos that he says he might sell on E-bay someday? I bet they take up a LOT of room. I am rather a minimalist myself. I don't buy anything I don't need or don't have room to store. It all sounds a bit overwhelming.

Politely, I write to him that I'm uncomfortable with a long-distance relationship because it puts too much pressure on a first meeting. I tell him I'm really looking for someone local (which is totally true, it's even in my profile) and that maybe I need to “take a break” from our correspondence for awhile. He writes back “Gee, I wasn't asking for your hand in marriage. Yet. (smiley face).” He says maybe he could travel down to meet me at LEAF (the Lake Eden Arts Festival) or a contra dance weekend in the spring. Something fun and lighthearted, low pressure. Then in closing he writes “Maybe I'll Be Home in the Spring”. Oh no, I cringe, This is moving too fast. I'm not ready for this. I am earth, he is water. If he comes down here in the spring, I will drown.

On a whim, I google Maybe I'll Be Home in the Spring because of how he wrote it out-- with first words capitalized, like a title. I find out it is the title of a made for TV movie. Then I discover that his online name--- Honey, I'm Home is the title of an old sitcom. Then I google a lot of the poetic turns of phrase in his profile that I have admired, and learn they were all lifted from song lyrics. “Quoting without attribution is cheating”, I always tell my teenage son when he is writing papers using online sources as references. That's it. That's the last straw. He's definitely not my soul mate. I'm not answering his emails anymore.

I play a game in my mind. I compare the men I've considered to different breeds of dogs. Choosing John O. would be like finding a large, old mutt at the pound-- that can't run anymore and is about to be put to sleep if you don't adopt it. This lonely, overweight man in Chambersburg Pennsylvania is truly all alone—even his parents are dead and he has no siblings—no children, no ex-wife, no career, no house. Choosing Phil, on the other hand—with his large house and his respectable job-- would be like getting a dog with a pedigree— a small one, possibly a Yorkshire Terrier. BTW, he still hasn't called me for that second date.

Maybe I'd feel more in my element, I think, if I let go of this man thing altogether and start searching for a good dog instead. I let my subscription to Match expire. I peruse pictures of pooches available for adoption. I browse breeds on line and consider their characteristics. I enter the animal shelter, regarding each furry face and wagging tail as I search for my new best friend.