Sit. Stay. Eat! (at the Dog Restaurant)

“Good evening, sir, and welcome to Tavern on the Grass. May I suggest a cocktail?”

Well. Let’s start off with some spring water from your deepest toilet.

“Any particular vintage?”

Preferably right after the bathroom tiles have been polished. And we’d like the whole bowl — enough to slobber down the hallway onto the living room sofa.

“Excellent choice, sir. Shall I tell you about our specials?”

Please do.

“We have dried poop, served in a vacant lot, and paired with a puddle of dirty water in the neighbor’s driveway. Our catch of the day is a left shoe.”

Is it fresh?

“Purchased this afternoon. It looks to be for an elegant affair. An important business meeting, perhaps. Even something formal.”

That sounds delicious. All right — the lady will have a portion of a ham sandwich left on a TV tray. But be sure her plate arrives before the TV tray topples over and spills pomegranate iced tea all over the iPad on the coffee table. I’ll have the shoe.

“Very good, sir.”

I’d appreciate your keeping the service brisk. We have plans afterward.

“Certainly, sir.”

We’ve got two tickets to a hole in the fence.

“Oh, my. I heard it had a great opening.”

It’s marvelous. Just enough to squeeze through. First you trot through the flowerbeds next door. They’re tulips, so they’re easy to dig up. Plus the soil is so soft under your feet, it’s absolutely amazing to squat and poop.

“Hearing you tell it, sir — it really comes alive.”

You rocket across the front yard, smearing wet dirt and poop all over the lawn, and hit the sidewalk. One direction or the other, doesn’t matter. What fills your ears next — well, the only word for it is astounding. It starts with a few stray notes, each building on top of the other. The little ones, the medium-sized ones, then finally the big ones, barking low and slow and deep like bassoons — a canine chorus howling, it seems, only for you.

“That sounds exquisite, sir. Will you be returning to join us for dessert?”

Another time. Tonight we’re going dancing.


At the mud pit. In the woods behind the cul-de-sac. We are in for a frolic, I tell you. Romping, splashing — then tracking all that filth into the house through the door in the back. We just got new carpet.

“You’re incorrigible, sir.”

I can poop a rug, I must say.

“Well, if I can be of any further assistance — “

Won’t you chat a moment longer?

“Sir, I must return to the chef and place your orders — “

Please. You’re such a joy to converse with.

“But your companion — and your splendid evening ahead — “

Oh, she understands, believe me. She’s the same as I am.

“Do you mean — ?”

Well, similar, if not the same —

“I must protest, sir — your suggestion is improper. And quite presumptive on your part — ”

I’m neutered.

Andrew Bryan Smith received an honorary degree in theoretical math from a fictional university. Currently he’s writing a sequel to the remake of an adaptation of a movie that was never made from a TV series that never aired. He hopes to turn the project into a trilogy, releasing the sequel first, a prequel second, and finally a spin-off of unrelated characters inspired by the original work. Andy lives in Los Angeles, or so it seems.

Read humor he’s written for Reductress, YourTango, and more at Follow him on Twitter @doitinprivate.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.