Pooch N You

I liked the name, cute and accurate at the same time. Not a grooming salon, not a doggy daycare, but an actual restaurant that served you food and had a menu for your dog. In Europe yes, you can bring your dog, he will have a cookie if he is lucky, and the requisite bowl of water. No menu.

Bring your own bed, can you imagine? I thought the place must be huge, picturing some kind of warehouse, dogs are messy. Would it smell like a daycare? How would you eat? All of it seemed hard to visualize. I read the article to Egret, showed her a picture of the menu, with its smart Scotch Terrier in perfect tweeds, its luscious shots of bones, like food porn for dogs.

She wasn’t too excited, who knows what dogs can see? The food menu for me was small, a bistro menu with a few GF options and one vegetarian, but it all sounded good. A soft opening, not my kind of thing, but I had to admit, I was pretty curious.

Day of, I pack a bag for Egret and me, snacks for the wait, we go early. Water, a book, her bed, her leash, the article mentioned a dog run, I bring a few litter bags. A drive along the river, before I know it I’m sitting on the ground in Egret’s bed, she’s in my lap, and we are waiting outside the door, having been the first in a line that grows ever longer, and louder. Dogs on leashes, dogs in arms, a party going on before their very eyes, how will it even work? The noise is loud, the struggles are fierce, a few that can’t be calmed are led away from their place in line by some disappointed owners. The rest of the dogs don’t care, there is shifting and bristling and a few yappers who don’t know when to stop.

I look down at Egret, she shakes her head mournfully, we both shrug and turn back to the door. Misbehaviour is beneath Egret, she’s a mongrel with an impeccable pedigree. Empress Egret, I call her, she loves it.

Above the door is a large sign, just before the doors open it lights up. “If your dog is restless, take a right here and go back to the dog run so he can get it out of his system. Then come on in.” I see a few that will need some time there.

Egret and I approach and the hostess greets both of us, letting Egret sniff her hand and the menu, a nice touch. Something smells divine, like roasting meat, Egret is pleased, the nose is working so hard by now. Her tag is read, “would you like a table near the window, Egret?” I almost laugh, how perfect. Egret declines gracefully and shivers, our bright hostess leads us to a table by the fire. I hold my bag, with the bed sticking out of it, the hostess shows me where to put it, near the flames but out of traffic.

This is really sweet, Egret sits alertly on her bed, watching the new comers. The odd bark or growl, but overall the dogs are too busy sniffing and looking to get involved. No music, how pleasant, I can hear the Hostess greet the dogs, so many kinds with odd names, do they resemble their owners? Or vice versa, as they say? Hard to tell without staring, I am caught at it, more than once. I just smile and look down fondly at my own beloved. Dog language between humans who love dogs. It works.

I take a good look around me. Tables are filling fast, dogs passing other dogs excitedly, a wide variety of manners on display, a few brief squabbles quickly dealt with. Waiters are squatting and rubbing heads, distributing tiny bone shaped cookies, Egret takes hers politely and puts it gently on my leg. Water bowls are filled, owners are twisting in their chairs, so much eye candy on display, it’s hard to tell who is more excited, dogs or people. I feel like laughing at the sheer ludicrousness of it, a pile of happy people and pooches, ordering lunch. Enough endorphins in this room to fly to the moon.

Icarus, a stunning greyhound, is stretched across his bed, calm and aloof, he refuses the biscuit and disdains the waiter’s attempts to flirt with him. The owner, a blonde woman in a dress and stilettos, watches coldly. He gives up and laughs, moving on to the next large dog, they have their own section, lots of room for big beds. Brilliant. Not for the first time I wonder how the woman got a permit for this place.

The waiter is doing better with Jed, a German Shepherd with great manners. I look back at Icarus just in time to see the woman feed him the biscuit, he licks her arm adoringly and puts his head in her lap. One hand falls gently on his head while she picks up the menu. The entire room feels better to me, somehow.

A number of pure bred dogs, glossy and well fed, I can’t identify many but I hear at least one Matthew, a Bret, King, Satchel, and an actual Chauncey that almost melts me with his stiff but intensely excited little stance. It’s clear he approves of something, who can say what? Three seniors, ladies, all have poodles, a Daisy, a Penny and a Niblet. I laugh out loud when I hear that one, great name for a chubby little white ball. She is so excited by the smells, she’s wiggling, what a sweetheart. Her owner is a plump grandmother with a bun and a smile that won her 3 cookies from the waiter. Her darling in her lap to eat them, what a perfect picture. I pretend to play with my phone and take one, a few actually, just to remember them by.

While my phone is out, I take pictures of everything, I’m not the only one. Everyone here knows this is something special, hopefully we won’t find ourselves front and center in some media site. I never share my pictures, people don’t need to see or know me, Egret feels the same. I can only dress her up on Halloween, when other dogs do it, she isn’t crazy about attention from strangers.

I capture some great dogs, Harry, little whiskers twitching, his moustaches curled, a distinct frown on his face. A bulldog named Quincy who stays standing to show off his black patent leather jacket, his owners a smartly dressed gay couple who cut the meat off his bone in tiny bits. Pretty much defeats the purpose, but each to his own, I guess. Like he has no teeth? They stick out clearly. His studded collar just adds to his natural fierceness, as far as he is concerned. Most of us agree.

I look at the menu, the soup and sandwich of the day sound appealing, minestrone with a caprese salad on a ciabatta bun. For Egret I can choose between something called Meat Mulch, highly recommended by the waiter, Puppy Pho, or three types of bones, Meaty, Snack, or Marrow. A tough choice indeed. I am pleased to see that they all come in different sizes, Egret looks up at me trustingly, sure I’ll make the right choice. Ah! The pressure, I can’t decide, the waiter’s smile is growing by the minute. He reaches out and takes the menu from me.

“Let me bring her what she wants, I know these things.”

A reach down, some serious licking of his wrist, she trusts him, so I will.

Look around again, lots to see, of course. About half the tables have couples, their dog an only child, commanding attention and getting it. The rest are a mix of singles, dogs in their laps or curled at their feet, making eye contact with me, since we’re all looking at each other and each other’s dogs. If I have people, they’re here, but really I’m interested in the pooches.

All the tables full now, one in the corner, marked reserved, waits for its occupants. A small furry dog bed on the floor already, a toy that’s being eyed by more than one guest, the bowl of water monogrammed with a gothic H. I’m curious to see who will claim it.

Food is being delivered, I see both the pho and the mulch placed on Niblet’s table, her owner lets her decide, then feeds her from a spoon. When her grilled cheese sandwich arrives, she takes an occasional bite, a sip of tea, but it’s about the dog for sure. I like to see that sort of thing, Egret approves, grandma gets a smile across the rug.

Bones go by on metal platters, still warm from the grill. On beds of lettuce, with slivers of poached liver or kidney, a few curls of cheese, something pungent. Egret’s little rib bone has all the trimmings. She hardly knows what to do with it, looking up at me, down at the bone, at the waiter, who slices a bit off and offers it to her, at which point she looks at the fire. We laugh, she sniffs at the slice, well done, the way she likes it, it seems like it might just do.

My order comes, the soup is steaming and fragrant, with fresh basil and parmesan, the ciabatta crisp and soft at the same time, I’m seriously impressed. Served on simple white plates, no garnishes, no swirls of sauce or sprigs of juniper. A few messed up orders, a bone for a Chihuahua named Clementine came out at 13 inches, while Otto the massive Mastiff cracked and swallowed his dainty rib bone in two bites. Liver bits licked up, cheese scorned. He had it on the house, but was clearly not impressed until they brought him his big one.

Around me, a sea of contentment, owners loving their food, a few dogs finishing theirs too soon and not happy about it. For all the talk about not feeding dogs ‘people’ food, and for all the actual dog food in this room, tasty and fresh, mostly beef, plenty of dogs are enjoying sandwiches. Chewing on ciabatta crusts, chunks of stew meat, shredded and fed in bits. A Schnauzer named Edison licks pesto off his ‘mom’s’ fingers, and spends a good five minutes looking for traces of it in his whiskers.

In the darkest corner, just off the section for the bigger dogs, a man sits drinking red wine and sampling a cheese plate, the charcuterie clearly a hit with his handsome Basset Hound. A Frenchman, his English not so good, his dog named after French fries, I think, the hostess has trouble with the name. The dog has perfect manners, settling in at his owner’s feet without benefit of a bed. I pick up my phone and pretend to look at it, while watching him, he’s wearing a suit, here in a bistro, and taking notes when he thinks no one’s looking. He’s interesting. His dog is gorgeous and so intelligent I think he can read my mind, when I put my phone down and look up, his eyes are fixed on me.

A fresh bottle of wine, the waiter leaves, the man slips the cork under the table for the dog to sniff. I smile to myself, the dog approves apparently since his master pours some in his dish. From his bag the man pulls a chunk of baguette, something not on the menu for sure, or I would have some. A piece ripped off for the dog, with pate spread and an olive. I notice they ordered none of the specially made dog food. The waiter’s urgings met with a cold stare, and something  like, “Pommes Frittes does not eat, comment on dis? Mulch. Que-est-ce c’est Mulch? Non Merci, Monsieur.”

I almost laugh out loud. I look down at Egret, she’s busy cleaning up her bone, her eyes glazed, her little teeth scraping. I have to wonder if the French Fry dog might like a juicy bone, served so temptingly with the liver bits and cheese. Surely a French dog approves of cheese?

The man notices his dog giving me extra attention, he smiles politely at me. His eyes are friendly, much like his dog’s, a warm brown and glinting with something like humour. Since I speak French, I take my courage in my hands and tell him the bones are quite good, and that his dog might like one.

He is tickled pink to hear some French, he comes over and kisses my hand, and asks me how I am enjoying my meal. I praise it, he smiles and says his is also excellent. Having not expected true Charcuterie outside of France, he is pleasantly surprised. He looks back at his dog, then turns to me. He says that for bones, his dog prefers T-Bone steaks, with the marrow intact, blood rare and garnished appropriately with his namesake. I can just imagine, we both smile indulgently and he goes back to his table. They share the rest of the tray, then a salad, then the Ragout, with more bread from his bag. Two desserts, the cheesecake proving to be hit with more than a few dogs. He goes through two bottles of wine, all I can do is wonder.

Outside the line has formed again, dogs with window seats are getting worked up, more than a few have to be taken outside. You can see it go around the room, canine contempt for those who can’t control themselves in public. Every dog left has his version of smug, it’s fascinating. People are still eating, some have dessert coming, happy dogs in every direction.

The kitchen doors swing and a few heads turn, mine being one of them. We’re looking up for a waiter, so at first we don’t see the dog come in. Pretty short, the Scotch Terrier from the article, in his tweeds, a striking green and grey pattern that suits his serious face. A tiny Tam, held on god knows how, a smart red bow at his throat, he’s clearly a VIP and knows it.

He slowly makes the rounds, greeting each dog and exchanging critical information, stopping pointedly beside a few empty water bowls. Waiters run. A long few minutes with Clementine, her owner and I make eye contact, it’s just a bit strange. No, there the tiny tail starts wagging, a big smile, the Terrier moves on.

He comes to Egret, they touch noses, she is trembling a bit, always a very sensitive dog. Anxious to behave correctly in this unique situation, no precedence to go by. He stays still and they look at each other, after a minute she stops shaking. He finishes his greetings, then drinks from his bowl of water and drops into his bed.

I snag the waiter and ask him what we all want to know. What’s his name? Is he the owner’s dog?

He’s grinning, “guess.”

“Well, from watching him just now, I might say ‘Highness’, that’s a pretty fancy monogram.”

“His tag is hidden under the bow, or you would see that his name is Haggis.”

I burst out laughing, the waiter walks to the corner and turns to the room at large.

“Everyone, our co-host here is anxious to ensure you all enjoyed your experience today at Pooch N You. His name is Haggis, all dogs can direct their questions to him.

“This corner table is for the owner, Elizabeth. Not Liz. She’ll be coming to sit there shortly, for her Latte. If she isn’t reading something, anyone is free to sit in the spare chair for a few minutes, and chat. If you’re lucky Haggis will let you rub his ears.”

Murmurs of approval, more than a few customers will be wanting to sit in the guest chair, I hope she comes out soon. Tables are clearing now, sleepy dogs in arms. Most of them follow their bed, I have to laugh. I look down at Egret, she’s sitting facing the Scottie, unblinking, perfectly still. He glances our way and sees her, his head goes up. They hold each other’s gaze for such a long time, I raise my eyebrows, the waiter stops at my elbow to watch.

Suddenly Haggis gets up. Still holding Egret’s gaze, he steps to one side of his bed, then lays back down. After a second, Egret gets up and goes over to him. They sniff noses, he licks the side of her face. She lays down beside him, he puts his head down on his feet and I can hear him sigh from here. Egret joins him, resting her tiny head on the edge of the bed, looking back at me. I look up the waiter, he has his phone out, taking a picture. I do the same, wondering what the hell they fed my dog. I order coffee and dessert, and slip another piece of wood on the fire.