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A few weeks ago, my dog, a rather anxious and delicate sort, was instantly drawn to a deeply unsavoury-looking shepherd cross with an open wound, tied up outside a dive bar. Toothless men and skinheads mingled on the sidewalk. Charmed as I was by her infatuation, I pulled her away. It wasn't my kind of place.

How did I know? I just did. Malcolm Gladwell, in his book Blink, describes this phenomenon - of making snap decisions based on things our conscious minds barely register - as "thin slicing."

Dogs are the masters of the thin slice. Dog trainer Dale Stavroff of Roberts Creek, B.C., author of Let the Dog Decide, speaks of "mini-gestures" that pass between dogs so fast, an unpracticed human can only detect them with the aid of slow motion film. By the time the dogs are at what we consider to be an appropriate greeting distance, they've determined everything they need to know.

However, dogs are not alone. As Mr. Gladwell explains, we humans do it too, unconsciously gathering data about people we meet, through the thrust and parry of small talk and the dozens of unseen micro-expressions that pass fleetingly over our faces. To a practised thin slicer, five minutes is more than ample time to parse an entire relationship.

FastLife.ca's "Puppy Love" speed dating, an event in Toronto last week at the Woofstock dog festival, promised to serve up a whole loaf's worth of thin slices. Each dog owner had five minutes to chat up an opposite sex counterpart on a picnic blanket, surrounded by Milk Bones, water bowls and hot gusts of dog breath.

I thin sliced the entire lineup of men before they even said a word, but then, I have a particularly itchy Ginsu.

Brady looked like Matthew McConaughey. He had long, blonde bangs - more of a man bob look, I guess. "Brady's an Afghan hound," his owner said. "My third - I named him after the other two I had, Brandy and Lady." Brady had been standing in the sun for about half an hour, and had worked up a frothy slaver. Next.

Keith's dog was named Tyson. "Well, he's a boxer, right?" was Keith's explanation. "My friends were suggesting I name him Rocky and stuff, but one day I was wrestling with him and he bit my ear, so ..." I didn't bring up the date-rape conviction, but I made a mental note of it. Next.

Mike, accompanied by an ancient, bony husky named Shadow, confessed that it wasn't his dog - his friends had lent it to him to help him out.

I like to think I would have cottoned on to this deception without being told, but, as Mr. Stavroff explains, "Meaningful communication happens in milliseconds, but everything in our education stops us from paying attention to it ... Maybe this person is dangerous to you, [but] you ignore those mini-signs that tell you all of that because the social behaviours tell you that they're friendly."

He believes dogs have the great advantage in communicating, ironically, because they can't talk.

And then there's the gesture that says it all. The speed-dater beside me had opted to wear her dog, in effect, to the event.

It was one of those grouchy-looking, hairy little dogs that are tempting to mock, and it was strapped to her chest upright, like an infant, its legs dangling uselessly.

It was like her thin slice came with its own garnish - nothing, it seemed to say, comes between me and my Andalusian hen-throttler.

Thin slicing: useful, yes, but also brutal. I think everyone would agree that reflection is also a valuable part of socializing. And in that spirit, I wish to commend the dog-wearer's honesty.

My mutt and I left without detecting a micro-whiff of romance in the air, but that night I shared my pillow with the sweetest creature I know: her. And I was okay with that.