The Liberty Hotel, usually a hot spot for the Boston social set, rolls up its sleeves every Wednesday night during the summer and plays host to a crowd of canines and their Chardonnay-swilling human companions. How I missed this before, I have no idea, but it was amazing.
His name is Pierre Murphy and he lives, despite his Hispanic ancestry, French name, and Irish surname, in the North End, Boston’s traditional Italian neighborhood. So yeah, he’s a pretty confused little pooch. He is also deathly afraid of the following things: loud noises from the apartment next door, noises in general, invisible spiders, men of all kinds, rats (they’re usually bigger than him), water, people who enter his home unannounced, snow, all other dogs, and pretty much everything else in the known universe. He loves to watch movies and TV, specifically Beverly Hills Chihuaha (shock), and anything on Bravo (it must be something about the constant squealing.) Not exactly a social animal.
His human Mommy, Caitlin, invited my friend Lisa (her roommate) and I along with them to the Yappy Hour. We spent the better part of the walk over betting each other how long it would take Pierre to have a heart attack upon entering into such a small space with so many other dogs. Pierre walked sideways, whipped his head around in panicked swipes, and looked back at us every two seconds to make sure we hadn’t abandoned him in the middle of the urban jungle.
But something strange happened when we reached the event…
Yappy Hour took place in the Yard, a normally sophisticated outdoor patio with Chinese lanterns and twinkling lights. There were dogs everywhere; jumping on each other, playing, begging for treats, desecrating the flagstone, fighting and trying to get their- ahem- groove on.
There were Pugs, Bulldogs, King Charles Cavaliers, Labs, Cocker Spaniels, and Daschunds, mutts and pure-breeds, teeny little yappers and several Great Danes that (A) were each roughly the size of a snowmobile and (B) attempted to trample me at one point during the night. To be fair, I accidentally kicked one of them in the face while untangling myself from the leash of a French Bulldog Puppy that I was actively trying to kidnap. . Most of the dogs in the place could have easily gulped Pierre down and still had plenty of room for their Kibbles.
Pierre cocked his head to the side, sizing up the situation. He looked at us, then back at the Yard. At us. At the Yard. Us. Yard. Us. Yard…
And then suddenly, it seemed to hit him.
Holy sh*%$@! I’m a DOG!!!
And just like that, Pierre-“My-Head-Explodes-At-The-Sight-Of-A-Mothball “-Murphy went to town. We could barely keep track of him as he pranced around the yard, strutting his stuff, sniffing and nipping and tarting his five-pound self to every corner of the patio. He rough-housed with strangers, he ventured into new territory, he let men pick him up. He even let his inner tough guy out...
…with somewhat adverse effects.
Clearly, a star was born.
On the way home, we stopped for dinner at a local pub with outdoor seating, so that Pierre could embrace his newfound love of the city and its inhabitants. A couple that had also been at the Yappy Hour were seated at the next table, with their doggie next to them. The dog meandered over Pierre to make friends, and we waited for Pierre to reciprocate. He looked at the dog for a second, cocked his head…
...and lost his freaking mind.
He spent the rest of the night in Caitlin’s handbag, trembling.
I guess some things don’t change after all.
Oh, and PS, Pierre is on Facebook.
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