Sometimes there's not enough giant dog to go around.

Fred's Mexican is the greatest bar on the planet.
They always greet me like a rockstar, they never ask for ID,
(good thing, too) and Ricky the bartender supplies the
thirsty dog with free beer. It's a fursuiter's paradise.

In exchange for this largess, they request that I take up residence at
a table near the door or on the front patio.
They say it's good for business.
Only the hardcore drinkers are attracted by a beer swilling mutt.
And they tend to tip well...

Across the way is another bar that shall remain nameless.
It's a nice place, but it's not homey and welcoming.
They won't let me run a tab and the bartender seems like a
cat person.

This Shepherdsday night found me climbing the stairs to Fred's,
thirsty and excited to see my pals. Suddenly, there was a shout
from behind.
"Wait up dog!" Came the cry.
It was the feline favoring bartender.
Seems it was a slow night across the street.
Would I be interested in having a beer with them?
On the house? And would I sit by the door and wave?

I was about to decline when Ricky came charging to my rescue.
Seems like Ricky and this guy are buds, but bidness is bidness.

The next several minutes remided me of one of those wildlife
documentaries where the male bears square off over a salmon.
Lots of claws and snarls. Lots of posturing and pointing.
One bear gets the salmon. The other sells less beer.

Impressed by Ricky's snazzy striped tank top, and feeling
out of place on Fred's stairs, the catguy slunk back to his den.
I strolled inside Fred's, happy not to be eviscerated, and took
up my usual spot by the door. I sipped a Corona and gave the
happy paws to the passing crowds. Fred's began to fill up and
Ricky brought me a fresh beer.

Life is good. I sometimes feel like Norm from "Cheers."
I'll visit the catdude on a night when Ricky isn't working.
I dig cats, after all.

Maybe I'll feel like Cliff.