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“dog” to Jay. He is a child, a gift from God, the sole inheritor to his estate—if you call a restored craftsman near Main Street in Santa Monica an estate—which I do, by the way.
    Ralph has all the attributes of a child—if that child has received every Snickers bar, every Grand Theft Auto game, every iTouch app his little mean heart desired—in a bichon frise body. Jay feeds him organic, grass-fed filet mignon and strains his morning mango juice. He sleeps with him on a hypoallergenic pillow. If you are reading this and you are a dog, quick, find a gay man to raise you.
    Ralph has his own website, Twitter feed, YouTube videos, Facebook fan page. And book deal. Ralph is a horror film with a Swarovski collar.
    Fool that I am, I agreed to babysit Ralph. I lost him after twenty minutes.
    Ralph, the Paris Hilton of canines, was gone for two days. Fortunately, Jay was in Miami. There’s no reaching Jay once he hits South Beach. It’s fifty-fifty whether anyone will ever see him again. Jay falls deeply, madly, for-the-last-time-ever-I-mean-it in love about as often as Madonna changes identities. And sometimes, it seems, with the same men Madonna falls in love with.
    Gay Cuban men are his Kryptonite. Who can resist a gorgeousman with a 28-inch waistline who can samba? I don’t want to meet the person who can.
    I had five days to find Ralph. I put up flyers (next to “ OLD DOG NEEDS ARTHRITIS MEDICINE ” and “ DECLAWED CAT ,” oh, and the “ TURTLE MISSING ” flyer— how far could it possibly get? ). I hired two pet detectives. One was a high school girl who dressed like an anime character. I fired her after fifteen minutes. The other was Sheila, a fashion-defiant lesbian (overalls) with a van and a jones for conspiracy theories. Sheila warned me that Ralph could have been dog-napped for ransom. (Ralph did have Internet stalkers.) Or, he had been eaten by coyotes.
    “Coyotes don’t go where there are green tea soy lattes,” I said. “They know the rules.”
    “Dude, they’re right on your street, at dusk,” Sheila answered, as we stood in my front yard. “You’d better find Ralph before they do.” Apparently, my safe, quiet, palm-tree-lined street was a molten river of teacup poodle blood (and Swarovski crystals).
    In the midst of this discussion, a convertible VW pulled up in front of the house. “Hi,” a man said as he exited the car, then winced as he hopped toward us. “Are either of you 310-555-1314?”
    In my head, Jay was saying, “This man is Shit Hot.”
    Chloe would say he looks like he would be a good father.
    Aimee? He’s too good-looking. Don’t trust him .
    I had read a dozen relationship books while bathing in an Epsom salt bath, wearing a flowered shower cap. Sexy, huh? I was not exactly a cougar, or even a lemur. I read: Love Your Man Despite Everything , Seven Steps to Getting Him and its sister book Seven Steps to Keeping Him , and Lasting Relationships: Why You Won’t Have One . Different from my usual fare, Gabriel García Márquez, Philip Roth, Raymond Chandler. And that Churchill biography I’ve been meaning to crack. For ten years.
    Apparently, when it came to men, I’d been doing everything wrong.
    The books claimed I was too assertive. From forty on, I would not make the first move. Upon meeting an attractive man, I was notto speak first, under any circumstances (even a natural disaster). This would be my Kilimanjaro.
    I was too loud. Now I would speak softly, and without a hint of sarcasm. I hoped I wouldn’t strain a neck muscle.
    I tended to be overly enthusiastic. “ Hi, I’m Hannah do you like scary movies I hate scary movies I’m not crazy about the Lakers I love the Dodgers I don’t understand jazz I hurt my wrist doing Pilates you want to go out sometime like tonight? ” The men who found me attractive were most likely deaf in one ear. If I were to meet an attractive man, I was not to make suggestions on where to eat, what movie to see, or what the names