A Case of Purloined Lager -- An Excerpt

by Tina Jens

Pat the Cat uncurled herself from a ball, stretched and yawned. Her sleek gray fur didn't shine the way it once did, and perhaps she spent more time napping now than she had as a kitten. Truth be told, she wanted nothing more than to turn around and catch another forty winks atop the warm VCR behind the bar counter. . . but the Old Man and the dogs had just entered the pub, and the mutts, as usual, were being rowdy.

Normally, the Red Lion Pub was a quiet, respectable establishment, where you could dine, drink and engage in a bit of conversation with your neighbor, or perhaps watch Patton on the TV at the end of the bar. Only small quantities of rowdiness were tolerated. (Once the doors were closed and the Late-Nite Regulars had settled in under the "private party" ordinance, larger quantities of rowdiness were tolerated. For now though, decorum should be maintained.

But how much decorum could you have with two yapping pooches in the place?

The Old Man was the senior proprietor of the pub. He was a good sort, with a fondness for all four-legged creatures. That was no reason to allow dogs in the pub, as far as Pat was concerned, but he did insist, and old men had to be indulged. As did their dogs. He usually brought a can of tuna and spent a good half hour petting Pat, too. But that just wasn't enough of a bribe to convince Pat to tolerate two fluffy, yipping, dogs with good grace.

The Old Man let go of the dogs' leashes and shuffled to the bar, easing himself onto a stool as the mutts yipped and jumped around his feet. He had named the pair of Shih Tzus Bonnie and Clyde – 'cause Chicago was a gangster town – though the bank-robbing duo never made it to Chicago. Pat wished the pooches hadn't either.

The Old Man motioned to Bill the waiter, who gently picked the dogs up and sat them each onto their own barstool. But Pat knew they wouldn't stay there. The next moment the dogs had climbed onto the bar and were running the length of it, like it was the straightaway at a racetrack and they were greyhounds. In their dreams!

The Joe-human called them "furry bedroom slippers," though Pat wasn't certain he meant it as an insult. She'd certainly take it that way! But dogs were funny, no sense of pride; they'd do anything for a little praise from any human who happened to be passing by.

These mutts proved it. A crowd had gathered around the bar, like it always did when the mongrels came in. All it took was a Yip! and one little back flip and the people left their dinners to get cold and their drinks to get warm, just so they could watch the show.

They'd been a pair of circus dogs. The Old Man had rescued the pooches from the pound when the traveling show had shut down. They'd been part of a clown review; dressed in little pink tutus, they'd wear big red balls on their noses, do back flips and front flips, and play dead when they were shot with a toy gun.

What a disgusting, demeaning life, Pat thought. But the pooches reveled in the memory of their glory days, and never missed an opportunity to show off their old tricks.

On his third flip, Clyde made a bad landing and tipped over the shallow tin that held Pat's cat food. That pushed things too far.

Pat arched her back to crack the stiffness out of her spine, huffed, then jumped down from the VCR to the floor below. Regally she marched out to mingle with the customers.

"Go get 'em, Pattie," Joe, the bartender, her most doting human, chuckled.

She rubbed herself against his leg and purred loudly, to let him know that while she was annoyed at the dogs, she didn't hold it against her human.

She weaved through the maze of tables, chair legs and reaching hands. The hands tried to lure her into familiar laps for a cuddle. These were the more discriminating patrons, not fooled by a couple of scheming show-dogs. But she wasn't in the mood for company just now. The dogs could play, but she had work to do.

Somebody was stealing from the bar, pilfering small quantities of ale from the storage room every Friday night. Pat kept track of the way the stock was stacked when she did her nightly patrols for mice. Just one six-pack went missing each week. Only a cat as devoted as her would ever notice.

Pat was investigating the burglaries, but so far, she hadn't been able to catch the criminal. Usually, her duties didn't allow her to stake out the storeroom for the entire night. She had to make the rounds, greet the patrons and keep the waiters on their toes. Not to mention, the storeroom wasn't heated, and her old bones didn't tolerate the cold so well anymore – not that she'd let the humans notice that! But tonight she would do whatever it took to catch the criminal....

If you'd like to read the rest of the story, you can order the book Tales from the Red Lion from Twilight Tales.

And you can visit the Red Lion Pub in Chicago, 2446 N. Lincoln Ave., across from the Biograph Theater. Unfortunately, Pat the Cat no longer prowls the bar, but Joe can still be found bartending most nights of the week.

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