Mac Works the Yappy Hour Bar Scene

My name is Mac, and I’m a dog.

It was a Friday, time to let off a little steam. “Hey, Mac, let’s go check out the yappy hour crowd the Sunset Grille? Let the girls fend for themselves. We might get lucky tonight,” shouted P.L., my Pack Leader. I barked, “I’m in.” Westies are party animals, you know.

I remembered the last disaster at the Beach Sniff when I left in shame and dejection. My pick-up lines were getting stale, and I needed another opportunity to work the crowd. Besides that, I was ready for a rematch with Emil, that arrogant Afghan Hound who had destroyed my evening’s chances with Shari, the petite Shar-Pei from China.

Let me tell you all about that fiasco.


Last month the P.L and I had eased into the crowded bar and eyeballed our opportunities. Possibilities pulsated with the music of Three Dog Night, “…just an old fashioned love song, one I’m sure they wrote for you and me…” Once unleashed, I foraged, hanging around the dog snacks and carrot treats, sipping a cold Perrier while assessing my options. Looking cool.

I had seen this crowd in action before...the perennial beach slackers, air heads and bar junkies. They sulked, preened and pontificated ad nauseam over past exploits, spewing dull, empty platitudes of over-embellished lies. They never scored. As far as I could see, their only virtue was in supplying the snack-tender with a job. Cheap, small-tip types are everywhere.

The Yappy Hour crowd preferred to hang with its kin. The stodgy, entitled English breeds---Spaniels, Sheepdogs, Setters and Fox Hounds—had bellied up to the food bar. A heated argument ensued between them and an American Pit Bull. Cornwallis’ name came up and the discussion ended. Some things never change…Brits are still sore losers.

The “big shots,” the dog-jocks and the condescending high-finance slicks had commandeered the food table, pushing and shoving their weight around. The Bull Mastiff was the big dog tonight, but he was having a tough time “one-upping” the Doberman’s Wall Street exploits. The German Shepherd was sullen, boasting of its Aryan heritage. Winners were few in this group…too much testosterone for the gentler sex.

The overhead fans whirled, circulating the scent of romance carried by soft ocean breezes that blew through open windows. Outside the moon shone brightly. I am a romantic…females like that in a Renaissance Westie, I was sure. I bet on it tonight!

The crowd, male and female, was friendly, consisting of all types and breeds. They sniffed endlessly, hoping to establish some rapport. Scottish Terriers and Hounds yapped noisily with the American clan of Bull Dogs and Retrievers. A Russian Black Terrier argued vociferously with a Siberian Husky, something about the Russian mafia’s recent manipulation of the Westminster Kennel Club. They were brainwashed in the art of “doublespeak.”

The Irish, true to nature, swilled heavily and yapped with bravado, especially the Setters and Wolf Hounds. They couldn’t seem to reconcile the separation of Ireland and England. The merits of the divorce were in hot debate with an Australian Tasmanian Terrier of the debtors-prison gang that settled The Outback. A fearless, croc-hunting specimen.

My ears perked up as the Beatles beat out, “…Gotta pay your dues if you wanna play the blues, and you know it don’t come easy.” Right on, dudes, I thought. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw what Luck looked like. There, in the darkest corner of the bar, was this immaculately-coiffured, elegant, black-haired Toy French Poodle. She sat alone in ribbons, sipping a San Pellegrino. Is this heaven, or what? Yes…luck is smiling on me tonight!

Strutting by, I thought, “Faint heart never won fair lady.” I yapped seductively, “Darlin’, do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?” Her eyes answered, “Try again, runt.” Undeterred, I yapped more forcefully, “A dog told me you were looking for Mr. Right.” A small smile broke her silent stare. “Oh, silly Americanized Scot, curl up on the blanket. You’re kinda cute for a short fellow anyway.” My world lit up in ecstasy. How lucky could I get?

But luck is a fickle female. She never gives, only lends. And my loan came due the minute the slick Afghan Hound strolled in. Effortlessly he moved. Arrogant, aloof, detached, his silky hair glowed with an envied sheen…he had no rivals tonight. Bones dropped, yapping ceased. A silence fell over the crowd. Shari swooned, and I knew I was toast. The hound moved in, I was moved out. Dejection described my mood.

Snickers and stares followed my bruised ego over to the P.L. “Ready to go, Mac,” he asked? A backward glance was my answer. We drove home in total silence. I guess his loan came due tonight, too. As we entered the house, Sophie, my platonic live-in mate, sniffed me, as if to say, “How did you do tonight, Studley? Never mind…I can see by your look it was about the same as usual. When will you learn, Rambling Man? Here, take this toy, and let’s go to bed.”

But that was then. Tonight at the Sunset Grille, I intended to repair my damaged ego. As I worked the crowd, a friend, Nilla, a yellow Lab, barked, “Hey Mac, come meet Collette—she just arrived from the Cote d’Azur.” Wow…luck is offering me another chance. It knows I’m fond of the French. “Move over, I’m in!”

Hope springs eternal for can-do canines. I should know…my name is Mac, and I’m a dog.


Bud Hearn
Copyrighted May 22, 2009