Mrs. Claus arrived at the dog party a little early with two bottles of bourbon, water and a fancy Danish stainless steel ice bucket in a large cotton tote bag. She brought 12 Ikea glasses with her and hoped that would be enough for the Friday happy hour.
She arranged everything on the picnic table and with a smile unpacked two bags of Fritos from another tote. She had purchased them specially for the occasion as she was fairly sure the gang in the suburban Berkeley park hadn’t tasted those in a while. Truth be told she wasn’t a fan but wanted to go all in. Her first choice would have been Cheetos but she didn’t want the orange fingers.
Tony walked into the area of the park where they held happy hour and let his labradoodle off of its leash. It ran over to Peanut to say hello.
He looked over at the picnic table and laughed.
“Damn, I was just joking about the dive bar theme,” he said.
“I enjoyed the champagne yesterday and wanted to contribute today,” said Mrs. Claus.
“Sounds like a plan,” said Tony and poured himself a glass of bourbon.
“Tony, right? What’s your dog’s name?”
“That’s Zeke. Normally we do it the other way around. You know the dog before the owner,” said Tony.
“Is that short for Ezekiel?” asked Mrs. Claus.
“It’s just Zeke. No big thoughts behind the name,” said Tony.
“Wow. That looks like fun,” said Aileen loudly as she entered the park and let Cujo off his leash.
“Please help yourself to some bourbon and snacks,” said Mrs. Claus.
The rest of the Friday happy hour crowd entered the park in a constant stream until there were about 20 people and an equal number of dogs. Other owners had brought some warm cider, vegan snacks and a couple of bottles of wine.
She had a great time talking to most of the people and getting to know more about the dog party. After a couple of glasses of bourbon Mrs. Claus was feeling good and watched the sun set from the park with the Golden Gate Bridge as a backdrop.
The temperature dropped precipitously as the sun went down and the people started collecting their dogs to head home to their individual Friday evening rituals. Hers would be a pizza delivery and a British crime show. She still hadn’t heard from Mr. Claus and assumed that he was having a good time at the World Cup.
