I’d like to call Bullshit. But I go along, because no one notices me drinking in a restaurant. But have 2 pitchers of margaritas at home by yourself and suddenly you are a “hopeless alcoholic.”
I like dogs — I even like other people’s dogs. But I never imagined myself to be one of those assholes who must bring a dog to the restaurant.
Susan is small and stays on the ground, but some of these damn people put the dog at the head of the table. Might as well tie a napkin around its neck and put a chop stick in each paw.
Shih Tzu on the Table
We were in Palm Springs — inside a restaurant. This older couple had some shih tzu-sized beast sitting in a chair and eating off the table. They put chunks of food directly on the table, and the dog leaned in and scooped up each morsel with its tongue and flappy lips. The saliva slick was visible from 10 feet away.
Other people complained. The waiters were in a tizzy about what to do. Eventually, they asked the couple to put the dog on the floor.
The couple was casting aspertions at all the potential snitches. We said nothing — no eye contact with crazy people has been a guiding principle in my life, and it was working here.
I watched closely as they left. The wait staff sort of wiped down the table — sort of not. 30 seconds later they sat four females… Hope those ladies had all had their shots. It would be a bitch to go home with a doggie bag and kennel cough.
Did we tell them they are eating in dog drool? No.
Did we offer to wipe down the table with our napkins? Nope. We just wiped down our own table and hoped “dog people” weren’t there before us.
We Fought the Law
Seems like there should be a law. Turns out there used to be. But in 2015, California changed the health code and let dogs inside. They are still not allowed in the kitchen, but everywhere else — might as well be in France.
Next these fuckers will be wearing berets and filling the dining room with cigarettes and cynicism.
Susan gets to go out because Arizona allows dogs on the patio (if the restaurant allows it). But sometimes, the Boy lies. Every time we want to go to a new restaurant, he calls ahead to check on “the dog policy.”
We were headed to a Mexican restaurant with a huge patio. He called and was told “no dogs allowed.” But after 2 minutes, he smooth-talked the hostess into letting him sneak Susan in “as long as the manager doesn’t see.”
So we had to get a table near the back. The Boy walked the dog around the dumpster and in the service entrance. Jesus fucking Christ, now we have to be a “back-door family” just for this little shit.
Can’t we, and everyone else, just leave the pet at home? Fuck. I don’t even think the dogs enjoy going out. I’d take a survey and ask them, but we can’t — because they are fucking dogs.
How about this, we don’t even have to ban dogs. We can just say:
- If you cannot fill out the customer survey from corporate at the end of the meal, you are not allowed in the restaurant.
Gets ride of dogs and small children in one simple rule.
I’ll drink to that.