Drunks love me.

It's true. Sometimes during the evening walks, Thelma, Nestle & I run into rather inebriated folks along Fifth Avenue, where you'll find the restaurants & bars that are open past 10 p.m. in this sleepy little Brooklyn burg. And those tipsy people, when they don't look at me and scream "WOW, that's a biiiig dog!!!" they shriek "Awww, he's so CUUUUTE!!!!!" And of course I give them what they want & put my head down & lean against them so they can pet me. Some of these people are so drunk, they even tell Nestle *she's* cute & pat her on the head.

Drunk people are funny because they ask the most questions about what breed I am and how old and if I have my own bedroom. (Because they think I'm so big, you see.) And often they're standing outside the bar smoking, so they kind of forget they're holding lit cigarettes while they're vigorously petting me & yelling "Look at the size of those PAWS!!!" & Thelma has to point out their cigarettes & ask them not to set me on fire. And some folks will get to reminiscing about dogs they had while growing up & they'll want to talk a while, which can be a little annoying if Thelma's eager to go home already & doesn't want to stand on the sidewalk talking to some drunk about the Schnauzer she had when she was 9 years old. But they mean well.

Thelma says the one good thing about smokers is they don't seem to notice or care if I "stink to high Heaven." I don't think that's very nice.