three dog night

A bar in Berlin. I am greeted by a dog. “Na hallöchen! (‘little hello’) Wer bist denn du?” He is wiry and rough-haired and nuzzles my bag, clearly scenting the traces of Another Dog on its old leather. Then said Other Dog bursts in. Writhes himself in an ecstasy into my lap. Now we are three. Dog owner joins us: four. A lanky dude with his lanky red-headed setter lopes into the bar just as the music changes. Red-headed setter slides under our table where all the dog action is at. Berlin, I love how you let dogs into your bars. How a person thirsty but inconclusive and confused can say, Was war denn das? Was du gerade gemacht hast? What was that you just made? And the barkeep will explain. “A very old-fashioned Old Fashioned.” It was so good I sucked all the sugar out of the orange peel. A wreath of contented dogs round my feet lying like drunks. A man who sells Motz (homelessness magazine) came in and made his pleading spiel. Along the bar a line of hipsters sweet and tilt-headed as birds.