Well, at least the dogs were well-bred

I met a real dog in a bar. Two dogs, in fact. They were King Charles Cavalier spaniels, the little silky dogs you see on laps in 18th century British portraits. Posh dogs. Of course, I was in a posh place: the St. Regis Monarch Beach’s bar, on a sofa by the fireplace on a Saturday night.

I have rarely met a dog I didn’t like. I always resent it when women say “men are dogs.” If men were dogs, there would be a lot of happy women in the world and no need for “The Rules” and that Mars and Venus drivel.

Attached to the dogs by two fine leather leashes was a disproportionately large man who would have looked ridiculous had he been formally painted with his pooches. He looked like an overgrown Sammy Hagar: red-faced with a frizzy orangish-blond mane. He interrupted my visit with the canines by asking me if I’d like a drink. I was already having a drink, but my friend Sue chimed in “yes!” and ordered a $12 glass of wine.

As I finished my frothy drink, the guy told me I had a green aura, which is “healing,” and insisted on ordering me a V.O.P. cognac, which stands for Very Old Pale. Kinda like him.

Patting the spaniels, I figured I now owed some small talk, so I asked him what he did. “I produce films,” he said.

“Where?” I asked.

“I’m just acquiring this company. It’s in the Valley,” he said.

I put two and two together, moved away from him and whispered, “Porn?”

“We prefer the term ‘adult,’ ” he said, and launched into a lengthy defense of his industry. Now, I am a prude. I was a little lightheaded from the V.O.P. cognac and the heat from the fire, and I became concerned about why Mr. Porn Mogul supposed I was his type. What had possessed me to put on fishnet stockings? They seemed fashionable at the time....

When Mr. PM suggested lunch at the Palm, I started to panic. Sue, on her fourth glass of wine, was no help at all.

There were some nice older women at the other end of the sofa, and I desperately wanted to join in their discussion of green goddess calla lilies. Then Mr. PM suggested he try his “chakra calibrator” on me to see if my chakras were “spinning right.” Egads. The once-charming dogs suddenly seemed almost sordid.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I think I’m allergic to your dogs. Ahhhh-choo! I have to go. Good night.” I shook his hand, then ran into the bathroom and scrubbed mine with antibacterial soap.