New York Magazine recently ran a piece on which types of dogs attract the most women.
Here are some of their scientific results.
“Roo, the Australian cattle-dog puppy:
In the lobby of Animal Care and Control, Roo immediately pressed his front paws onto me and licked my face. On East 86th Street, my pointy-eared wingman elicited a shriek when he tried to lick the face of a woman selling books from a card table. But then Kristina, a doe-eyed 21-year-old brunette, stopped her stroll and giggled, “Hello, baby” to Roo and “Hello” to me. If a woman likes being licked by a puppy, she’s my sort. Overall, the adoption-ready Roo (for information, call 311) wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t Hugo either.
Moca, the golden retriever, and Ernie Romeo, the long-haired dachshund: With little reaction garnered from the fairer sex, both purebred dogs offered good looks but little charm.
Rudy, the three-legged mutt:
Please do not consider sawing off a dog’s leg—but if you did, you’d improve your luck. Rudy, a mix of German shepherd, Airedale terrier, chow chow, and Rottweiler, has pretty much every scary dog in his pedigree. But sans a leg, he’s a female sympathy sponge. As we limped toward the dog run in Union Square, I heard from a bench, “Ooh, look at the poor fellow,” and turned to meet Alexandra, 29, a dimple-cheeked publishing intern visiting New York from Berlin. “He’s cute,” she said. So was she. Rudy’s drawback is that he inspires everyone, landing me in conversations with deliverymen, homeless folks, and megaphone preachers. He also did what a lot of dogs do: sniff indiscriminately at the genitals of other dogs.
Disco, the great dane:
Convinced no dog could out-magnetize Hugo, I tried a most unlikely rival: a pony-size Great Dane with a metal-spiked collar and bridge-cable leash. Three steps into Washington Square Park, we were surrounded by a group of female NYU undergrads, pressing in and petting Disco without fear. When I finally broke away, one called out, “I could ride him like a horse!” A few steps later I met Casey, a skinny, brown-eyed anthro major whom I wish I did not find so devastatingly attractive because she is 21 and I am barely still in my thirties.
“Physical or cultural anthro?” I asked.
“Cultural,” she replied. I always go for the cultural types, the ones who prefer living people to bones, who want to travel and live with the !Kung or Solomon Islanders for a spell. I felt guilty asking for Casey’s phone number, but she gave it to me all the same. Damn that Disco—he fetched trouble.”