I Roasted A Massive Dog At The Bar And I Don’t Feel Bad About It

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I Roasted A Dog At The Bar And Don't Feel Bad About It

Last night, I went out for drinks with coworkers after work. It was a rough day, whiskey was on special, and there was a card minimum that we were all trying to hit. So, without getting into it, booze was flowing like the Euphrates.

We were at this corner bar about a 10 minute’s walk away from my apartment, which is right around the corner from my coworker’s apartment. When we were stumbling our way back home, we came across this divey place that sounded like it had live music playing. Naturally, we stopped in for last call.

The place was—in a word—grungy. The patrons ranged from twenty-somethings to upper-middle aged men and women. Pretty much par for the course in my neighborhood of Chicago. We ordered two beers and listened to the last of this folksy band’s set when we saw what can only be described as a monster waddling towards us.

Granted, yes, we were both pretty drunk. But I’m not exaggerating when I say that this thing was probably a 175-200 lb. German Shepherd. Friendly as hell, but also incredibly dumb looking. As it sat in front of us smiling its stupid dog smile, we started to hurl insults at it.

“Are you sure you aren’t a horse?”

“I’m pretty sure I saw you in The Revenant, you did a great job beating the shit out of Leo.”

“You look like the dog version of a whale.”

“You’re so fat. Seriously, like, so fat.”

At about this point the dog’s owner came back from the bathroom. He was an older, heavy set guy; I would compare him to the blind radio station owner in the movie O Brother, Where Art Thou? Except he wasn’t blind. He just had something funky going on with his eyes. They were pointing different directions.

“He’s a big boy, isn’t he?” the owner said. What we should have done was admire the dog and then walk away. That’s not what went down.

“Yeah, what does he weigh, like 200 lbs?” My coworker said.

“Oh, no, he’s sitting at about 125.”

“I’m sorry, I’m calling bullshit on that,” I replied. “What do you feed that thing, other, smaller dogs?”

“I swear to God, I’m not 100% certain that this isn’t a horse,” my coworker said.

“Do you ever put a saddle on him and let midgets and small children ride him around in parades?”

“I picture his poop being compared to the giant pile of shit in Jurassic Park.”

“But the pile of shit in Jurassic Park is just a scaled down version.”

This whole time the owner is just staring at us, clearly upset. He was turning red and biting his lip. I only know this because the lights were turning on. We looked at each other, looked at our beers, did a swift chug, and left the bar.

Do I feel bad about making fun of the dog? No. He wasn’t even the one that was offended. The whole time, this dog is sitting and staring at us, expecting us to hand him a treat, like a license plate or Tyrion Lannister’s torso. The way I see it, if we were doing something to piss this thing off, he would have let us know. One of us would have lost a limb. Or at least gotten barked at. We’re both in one piece and got a good laugh out of it.

I’m not saying I’m going to start targeting dogs to make fun of, but, I mean, if the opportunity to unleash some drunken stress on a fat animal that doesn’t know any better presents itself, I’m going to take it. Why not?

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