Me and my pals were discussing the whole dogs in restaurants issue on our DugzApp group chat the other night. Being actual dogs, you’d think we’d have some bone in this game, eh? Aye right. Those places that claim to be dog-friendly are anything but.
What they really are is "dog-owners" friendly, which is a whole different kettle of foxes. One minute you’re sitting at home, wondering if you’ll get to see that wee honey of a labradoodle up the Dawsholm Park this weekend. The next, it’s on with the collar and you’re being dragged along to some supercilious Byres Road eaterie which claims to be "dog-friendly".
And then you’re expected to just lie at the foot of the table docilely, like that brainless big English Sheepdog in the Dulux paint adverts who, by the way, is an absolute throbber and cuts about as though he’s Lassie the Wonderdug. We’ve reported him to the Dog Actors Union dozens of times for being a psycho, but nothing ever happens. What follows next is torture.
For an hour or so, plates of pigs, sheep, chicken, ducks and cows are being passed back and forth above you while you’re expected to budge not a jot. Barbie and Ken think that just because they’ve given us a tin of jellied, left-over gruel before we came out that this will stop us getting the munchies while they’re getting tore into their Chicken Kievs and their Steak Dianes. Big Rab the Lab from Partickhill was telling me about the ponytail and red corduroy roaster he’s been landed wit.