Exotics

The Boss spotted a note in the local hipster newspaper about an “Exotics Show” at an American Legion post/bar in a sleazy part of town.

“Chewey, wonder if they’ve got any Brussels Griffon there.”

No, Boss, just no. I gave him the ‘look’.

“Snakes and such, I know, I know, but let’s go check it out.”

“NO, BOSS, JUST NO.”

We went anyway.

First bad sign: We were the only foreign car of the few in the parking lot.

Second bad sign: The doors to the main hall were locked.

Third bad sign: The Boss was undeterred. We went into the bar.

Generally speaking, with me, you gotta walk into the place like you own it, especially if you’re an Alpha dog. Works most of the time— ‘cept when the place is crawlin’ with Dobermans.

Before the Boss can react, I’m on the dogs with my sniveling, guttural growl, showing my row of irregular sesame-seed teeth and rice-kernel canines, enough to make any beast back up a bit. The show stopped them in their tracks, but the big one must have had the brains. He looks at my eighteen pounds and does the math. I’m good for another second or two. I redouble the growl and add a mad-as-hell tremble. If only I could rotate my head 360 degrees…

By then the fat fuckers at the bar are yellin’ at their dogs to chill, the Boss finally figures out there’s no snake show and we’re outta there.

The place was full of ‘Exotics’, though. Next time, I’m wearin’ my spiked collar.