A dog in the pub

From all the people one can meet in a pub, my favourite kind are old people. And at the very top of that list are old people with dogs.

They meditate over a pint of Guinness and, from time to time, give you those funny looks that seem to say: I’d say something funny, but I can’t be bothered right now.

There comes a stage in their lives when they all start to look kind of the same — men in flat caps, with messy grey hair and brown corduroy uniforms; women — a slightly rarer but still permanent feature of the pub landscape — wearing lipstick that matches their colourful dresses in shades of pink or lilac.

What is particularly interesting is that their dogs very often start to resemble them. Or perhaps it’s the other way around. I’ve always wondered how exactly that mechanism works.

Sometimes I feel like walking over and putting the owner’s cap on the head of his sleepy spaniel, just to show them that they are practically indistinguishable.

The other day, we went to a tiny pub in Kilmainham for a quick pint. There was an old man there with his dog, and another, younger man — who sounded like a visitor from France — staying with the dog while the old man went inside to use the loo.

I asked French guy about the dog’s name and petted the little fella for a while before going back to minding my own business — namely, my pint of Guinness.

After some time, the old man got ready to leave and squeezed past our seats.

“Good night, McKenzie,” I said to the dog.

The old man froze and looked at me.

“How did you know his name?” he asked.

“He’s a very well-mannered dog. He introduced himself,” I said.

“Well, he is indeed,” said the old man, and disappeared into the dark alley.