May 07, 2008
How many dogs do you think go missing in Richmond every year? Seventy-hundred? A hundred-gamillion? I’m not particularly keen on numbers – nor do I know what “numbers” are – but the answer doesn’t really matter. All you really have to know is that I am the most important “Lost Dog” there is.
For I am th
e Millie’s Lost Dog, Markus. And you’re probably wondering where in the heck I ran off to.
In the near 20-something years of the Richmond institution that is Millie’s, I’ve been the – pardon the pun – “poster child” for the joint. Because, like, there are posters of me everywhere at Millie’s. But, well yeah, okay, I’m not really a child, either. You get what I’m saying.
God, I love smelling dog asses.
Anyway, the story of where I went goes down like this: It’s ’89. Richmond. My owner Paul decides to open what would soon become the quintessential River City eatery, a place people would eventually stand in line for hours to grab a bite. I didn’t really like those big crowds, so I blew that Popsicle stand. Got out of town and never, ever, oh, oh yes, right there, give it to me, rub a little higher…oh, heck yeah, gives me the shivers. Keep it going, I can’t stop moving my back leg right now, sheesh you’re good at that. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t…
Wow. Woof! Where was I? Back on track, here, let’s see…right, right, the whole “Lost Dog” thing.
After I skipped town, Paul put up all these signs so people would know what I looked like if they saw me. You’ve seen them. I mean, they’re everywhere in the restaurant, T-Shirts, the menu – you name it. Black and white, real simple, look just like me. The art really says a lot about the simplicity of Millie’s fare – traditional foods turned into world-class what? Sit? Now? You want me to sit here? But I was just sitting right over…what? I don’t want to sit. How about I just roll over, and you rub on that feel-good spot again? No. No. I don’t get it. No, seriously, I’m not really comprehending your commands right now, that’s why I’m turning my head to one side and giving you that, “I don’t understand what you mean”-type look.
Seriously, W-T-F? I’ll make a Devil’s Mess all over your kitchen if you don’t quit asking me to sit.
Fine. Fine, I’ll get on the ground and sit like you asked, but I’m going to finish my story. There now.
Come to think of it, that’s pretty much the end. I never came back to Richmond, but the sign stuck around and is now the iconic symbol for Millie’s. I hopped a train to Atlanta, spent some time checking out the hottie poodles on the boardwalk in South Beach, then went out west to try and become a stunt dog in Sylvester Stallone action movies (a long road to nowhere). But I still try to make contact with the folks back home every now and what are you eating?
Is that a steak? No wait, it’s chicken. Hold on, what time is it? Morning. It’s morning time. Which means that’s bacon. It’s bacon, I know it is, you sonofabitch. No, please, no, I didn’t mean to jump at you just then, and call you a bad name. Just - I beg of you – please, pretty please, one slice with the fatty end on it…fine. Be that way. Eat up your delicious bacon. You’ll get yours someday, partner, just see what happens when you don’t listen to me. I’ll chew your rugs to pieces later on, asshole.
Hey, speaking of asshole, do you know where I can find another dog to meet?
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