Canines and Cocktails

For over a week Mark has bugged me about taking the dogs to a doggie cocktail hour at the very smart, Riverside Hotel. It sounded like a nice time. You can bring your dogs, and they promised half price cocktails, and appetizers. I couldn't refuse. So off we went on Sunday evening, stuffing both Sasha and Chandler into the back seat of the car. When we got to the hotel a nice man directed us out to the little dog party in the courtyard, where Mark and I ordered drinks and the dogs were served gourmet dog cookies. It was very nice. In fact I think it was too nice. Absolutely every other dog there was a pedigree breed, and absolutely every person we talked to had to ask, "What breed is your dog?"
"A mutt, my dog is a mutt."
"Oh well, mutts are the best, aren't they?" they would reply, as they turned away with little Fifi in tow.
Chandler, on the other hand, didn't give a shit. He just went around sniffing everyone's butt. He seemed especially interested in a large standard poodle. He sniffed and sniffed at the large black testicles dangling from the pure white dog, as if to say, "What the hell are these, and why don't I have any?"
The answer of course is, "You are a mutt, and mutts don't have nuts."

As pleasant as it all was, I wanted to leave after about an hour. I not only was sweating rivers of perspiration, it was still ninety degrees out there, but Chandler had decided he didn't like the waiter. The poor guy was only being nice, giving Chandler a little pat on the head, when Chandler went into a full on, loud barking jag. It scared the hell out of the waiter, and of course all the other patrons looked over at us like we had farted at a funeral. I'm sure they were all whispering, "The dog is a mutt you know."