My dog Yeschke is husband material.

At the age of six, he has had more marriage proposals than most men get in a lifetime. His first conquest was a cat fanatic—and this was no case of love at first sight. But in just six weeks Yeschke had turned this woman into a dog lover.

When Casey came knocking on our door, to introduce herself as our new housecleaner, things did not look promising at all. Yeschke barked ferociously. Luckily, I opened up quickly, before she had walked off. “Don’t worry about the dog,” I said breezily, holding him back by his choke chain. “He’s still young and rambunctious.” Casey’s lively blue eyes scrutinized me and the broad-chested mutt by my side. With 60 years of life experience under her belt she wasn’t about to put herself at the mercy of some over-the-top dog lover and her undisciplined alpha animal. But she wanted the job. She liked the idea of getting paid “to do exercise,” as she put it. After weighing the pros and cons carefully, she took us on as clients but made me promise never to leave her alone with Yeschke.

After a couple of weeks, I heard her chatting with him as she dusted around his pillow. Shortly after that, I walked into the room as she was stroking his head. She smiled sheepishly, looking like a much younger version of herself, like a girl who’d gotten caught with her hand in the cookie jar. One rainy day, she watched me grab the umbrella and leash. “Are you taking him on a walk now?” she wondered. I explained that I had to pick up my car at the shop and was honoring my promise to not leave Yeschke at home with her. Casey shook her head in disapproval. “He’ll surely catch a cold in that weather and then he won’t be able to smell a thing.” she muttered. She suggested that I leave him at home, and from that day on, I could come and go as I pleased.

My suspicion that Casey actually preferred staying alone with the dog was confirmed one day. “If Yeschke were a man,” she announced, “I’d marry him in a minute.”

I asked how he had won her heart. “Is it his good looks?” I inquired. Yeschke is handsome in a rugged kind of way. He doesn’t have the indulgent good looks of a purebred, but the lack of pedigree seems to work in his favor. People are always commenting on his sleek silhouette and his perfect proportions. There’s not an ounce of fat on him.

Casey admitted that she admired his muscled body. She noted how much she liked his black-rimmed eyes and the happy curl of his tail. “But in the end,” she explained, “it’s none of that. It’s the way he follows your every move with his eyes. That has made me believe in true love.”

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Yeschke’s lab-chow/pit-bull genes add up to an interesting personality mélange: tough alternates with gentle, protective with friendly, aloof with playful. Not all women like him when he displays his fierce and rowdy “outdoor” side. But the ones who become better acquainted with him can’t seem to resist his mix of belligerent and sweet, wild and devoted. There are lots of women who have experienced, painfully, that animal magnetism in men is usually paired with selfishness and infidelity. It amazes them that in Yeschke, it coexists with unconditional love.

My female friends know Yeschke has proved his rugged courage. Once he got lost, miles away from home. For three weeks he prowled the urban wilderness. When I finally found him, his legs and belly were scraped and cut and he was emaciated. He probably could have willed his way into someone else’s heart, but he had pressed on, looking for his pack, his family—at least this is how we fill in the blank of his absence. How he managed to cross several busy streets and an interstate highway remains a mystery.

His amazing survival skills have added to his allure. Women’s eyes light up when I tell that story of losing him, especially at the ending when we were finally reunited and Yeschke sighed deeply, just once, as he lay down at my feet.

Yeschke’s appeal is not restricted to women of a certain age. Lori, a student who lives in the neighborhood, listed Yeschke as her “significant other” in her high school yearbook. “Marry me, you handsome devil!” she calls out to him when she picks him up to go jogging. They make a smashing couple—her cinnamon-colored hair perfectly matches the hue of his gingersnap fur. People turn their heads when they pass by, all bouncy and exuberant.

This dog has no problem capturing the fickle hearts of giggly girls. When my daughters were younger, they loved to romp and cuddle with him. He nuzzled each girl as though she were “the one.” Warmed by his affection, they whispered sweet nothings into his ear. They reveled in his unquestioned obedience, the way he came to them every time they called his name. They were captivated by his animal magnetism before they had a word for it.

He even manages to win over men, such as my husband who was not keen on having a dog in the first place. In fact, Yeschke was named after my husband’s invisible childhood friend so that he might be won over. And eventually he was. Now he insists on taking Yeschke on a long walk, every day.

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Yeschke’s biggest fan is probably my friend Gina, a jazz singer whose voice conjures up dark bars and illicit flings. She, too, was hesitant about the dog when she first met him. She came to live with us for a few weeks. Before long, she was crooning to him. “Beautiful dog, you’re a lovely creature.” Ah yes, the melody sounded familiar. “Beautiful dog, why don’t we call the preacher.” I hummed along and Yeschke wagged his tail as though he recognized her adaptation of the musical score from Singing in the Rain. “I would give up the single life for a man like Yeschke,” Gina declared dramatically.

I warned her about his questionable abilities as a provider: “I have never seen him actually catch one of those squirrels he is forever chasing in the park,” I said. But she had fallen for his mixed personality and, most of all, his enthusiasm. “At this point in my life, I need a man who is gentle and strong,” she explained of their fateful attraction. When she went on tour, Gina left Yeschke behind, regretfully. Both postcards hanging above his pillow are from her, addressed to “Yeschke, man of my dreams.”

I must admit there are moments when even I would take Yeschke over my husband. His good mood is contagious. He is a great listener. He is always ready to follow my lead. No matter how many marriage proposals he chalks up, he always remains, faithfully, mine.

When he reminds me of his animal heart, it is never cause to call his loyalty into question. Yeschke flashes his potential for ferocity when he snarls at canine contenders. But he extricates a slice of salami from my hand with careful, velvety precision. I know, of course, that it is a vestige of his hunting hound breeding. But it feels like a declaration of love.

Yeschke allows me—and the other women who know him—to imagine that we have tamed something wild just enough to forge a deep connection. In my mind, that’s enough for the most satisfying of fantasies.

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Christine Schoefer is a freelance writer living in Berkeley. Her work has appeared in Salon, Utne Reader, the San Francisco Chronicle, and the Los Angeles Times.