Mack always loved me, but I was never under any illusion about the hierarchy of his heart. He was absolutely, unconditionally devoted to Ally. When we eventually separated and she moved away, Mack was left with a lingering, hopeful void.
Every trip to the park near my house became a high-stakes investigation. If Mack spotted a woman with blonde hair—whether she was fifty yards away or just a glimmer on the horizon—he was off like a shot. He was convinced, every single time, that he’d finally found his missing person.
I, of course, had to follow in his wake. I’d jog across the field, arriving breathless just as Mack was realizing his mistake, and I’d have to offer a sheepish, "Sorry, he thought you were someone else... Hi, I'm [Name]."
It didn't take long for me to realize that Mack had inadvertently become the most brilliant "ice-breaker" in the history of dating. He was introducing me to every attractive blonde woman in the neighborhood with a success rate that a professional matchmaker would envy.
I looked at him one afternoon, panting and happy after yet another "investigation," and realized I was sitting on a goldmine. I thought to myself, I should really be renting this dog out to the eligible bachelors of the neighborhood by the hour. I could have made a fortune. Mack would get his exercise, the bachelors would get their introductions, and I’d be the tycoon behind the world’s first "Canine Wingman" agency.
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