Melting pot

Around here, Len's bar-and-grill-and-swap-meet is the true social melting pot. The folks who work at the gin stop by on their way home, as do the town lawyer and doctor and mayor. The people who just come out to their hobby ranch to escape from their high-pressured, oh-so-important jobs in the big city come in on weekends, and everyone kind of rubs shoulders with everyone else. I think it's the hand-made margaritas.

Whatever the cause, it makes for some interesting listening, as many of those people bring their best friends along. Sometimes there are nearly as many dogs lined up along the wall as there are people lined up along the bar.

Len doesn't let the dogs sit at the bar. He used to, but someone complained to the health department. I wish I knew who it was, because I did enjoy those days. Maybe it was Milt, but I doubt he's been to this corner of the planet yet. And I don't think he really objects to dogs as much as he does to overflowing toilets.

Last weekend, the heat brought sane people off the street and into the cool of Len's place. I took my spot, three over from the door - not quite the corner, that's Sadie's spot (she's Len's hound, for those of you who don't know). I circled a couple times and then sat.

A few minutes later, Gus came in. Now Gus is like me: mixed breed, a rescued-off-the-streets kind of dog. He's good company. And right behind him comes a snow-white poodle with a diamond-studded collar. I never did catch her name, but she started right in whining about the operation she was recovering from.

"It was horrible. And SO painful. I couldn't even walk for two whole days," she complained.

Gus, conversationalist that he is, asked, "What kind of surgery did you have?"

The poodle sniffed, and said, "I had a hysterectomy."

Gus said, "Good grief, girl. Why can't you just call a spayed a spayed?"