“Here I am! Hey hey hey hey!”
Fido scampered on over, full of beans as usual.
“Fido, have you been messing with my email? I’m getting all kinds of strange email from people I don’t know, in places I’ve never been, and I just have a hunch you’re behind this.”
“I love email,” Fido said. “You can connect with anyone!”
“I know, Fido, but I don’t want to be connected with EVERYone. I can see there is a green, pine pollen dogpaw print on my keyboard.”
Fido sat (obediently, for once in his life) at my side. He grinned.
“Read me one of your weird emails!” he effused.
“One of them is from a woman in Lake Tahoe who wants to have dinner with me. Another one is from a woman who wants to go for a hike with us in the High Country.”
Fido had a hard time containing himself.
“It worked! It worked! It worked! So are you going to go for a hike and maybe dinner afterward?”
“Here’s another one, Fido, who is accusing me of being … well, you don’t want to know. Fido, what’s behind all this? What a mess!”
“I just figured you’d like a little company, is all,” Fido said. “You know, someone to make your coffee in the morning, that kind of thing.”
I checked the return domain names.
They were from match.com, OurTime.com, and others. There weren’t very many of them, but enough for me to know that Fido had been up to no good.
“Fido, what’s behind this?”
Fido said he was peering at the TV one night when I was on the World’s Largest Dog Bed (the couch), and “Sleepless in Seattle” popped onto the screen. Myself, I was dozing and, like I say, I hadn’t set the channel. I snorted awake, briefly, when Fido said, to no one in particular, “I’ll miss Nora Ephron.”
When I roused myself, I switched over to the baseball game for a few minutes, and then hit the hay.
Fido had had other ideas, copped from Ephron, probably, and that’s when he got to the keyboard and began his search.
“What did you tell these people?” I said.
“Hmm, well, that you like to read books and watch baseball, and that you like boot-cut jeans and hats. Lots of hats.”
“And that you are great with big red dogs like me!”
“And that sometimes you listen to Bob Dylan, then switch over to Dvorak, then switch to Bessie Smith, over to Mahler, then to John Gorka and that you’re all over the place sometimes.”
“The point, Old Boy,” said I, “is that you just can’t get onto somebody’s computer and sign him or her up for dating services. It’s just not a thing you’d want to do.”
“But that kid in Seattle? He roped in Meg Ryan!”
He had me there.
“Fido, if you could rope in Meg Ryan, maybe I’d change my mind.” I gave him a scratch behind his ears. “And I’ll miss Nora Ephron, too.”