Dogs of Sparky’s
My local bar, Sparky’s, lets you bring in dogs and pizza. These are two excellent points in its favor. I don’t own or want a dog, but Sparky’s allows me the occasional fantasy of being a doggy person, without the poop and the doghair and the ever-present danger of savage maulings.
At Sparky’s, you order good Italian pizza from Vinny’s up the street (on your cellphone, standing outside so that the regulars don’t think you’re a Manhattan-type). As soon as it arrives, the dogs crowd around your table hopefully. If their owners allow, or are too sloshed to care, you feed them anchovies and crust. They gobble this down, then immediately put their starved, pathetic expressions back on. Only you and your generosity can save them from wasting away. They drop this charade only when someone else gets pizza.
Last year Tim saw a guy walking up Smith St. with two Rottweilers on a leash. It was a cold day, and he rubbed his hands.
‘Well, whaddya say, boys? Should we stop by Sparky’s?’
Both dogs woofed obediently. Now that’s training.