It’s difficult being a dog in a restaurant in this city, no
one wants to know about you. I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve been
shooed away from an eatery just because of who I am.
Look, I know what you’re thinking but I’m not a scavenger. I
have money to pay for my dinner, I don’t want anything for free I just want to
enjoy food like everyone else. The thing that gets in the way though is
communication. If I could just explain that I wanted to order from the menu and
pay with the note that’s tucked under my collar. But they don’t know what I
mean.
I don’t think it helps that the pronunciation of spicy squid
casserole requires me to growl a little more deeply than usual. They mostly
take it as a threat I think, but it’s not a threat. I’m not trying to scare
anyone, I just like hot food.
I suppose it’s my owner who’s to blame really. He has always
cooked for the two of us, no separate meals like the other dogs, nothing out of
the can. He’d sit down to his dinner at the table and give me a plate over by
my corner of the floor. Whatever he ate I ate and well, I’ve become accustomed
to the human style of food now.
The problem though, is that he’s not in any state to cook
for me anymore. He’s old you see, maybe twenty five in dog years, I’m not sure
exactly about the maths. But he’s old even for a human, they’ve taken him off
to a home where they keep the old people. I know where it is, but they wont let
me anywhere near him. Apparently I’m unhygienic.
So lonely and lost I just wander around the streets trying
to explain to waiter and maître Dee’s that I’m a paying customer who wants to
appreciate the food on offer. It hasn’t worked even once so far and I end up
trotting back to my owner’s house where his daughter will have left me a cold
can of that rubbish other dogs eat.
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