Gone to the Dogs, or the Death of a Thousand Missed Heartbeats

Augh!!

Until tonight, I felt fairly secure in my knowledge that "the worst things to have happening when the health inspector walks in" had already occurred. Seriously, folks, how would you top the day that the health inspector shows up while the following are taking place:

In the kitchen: hundreds of pounds of ground beef are being processed into miniature hamburgers; while,

In the annex room, hundreds of breakfast yoghurt parfaits are beings prepared; at the same time,

In the office, a dog (of the canine variety) has dropped by for a visit.

Well, I found out tonight what could be worse....

Having just finished closing the kitchen, I walked out to the bar to sign out. One of the televisions was airing an ESPN breaking news clip about Pat Summitt's 1000th career victory. Being rather intrigued by the television, feeling confident in my ability to traverse an open floor area without needing to look at my feet, I strolled mindlessly along until I stumbled over something.

Err ... make that several somethings.

Make that several furry somethings.

Of the canine variety.

Just inside the entrance from the porch, sprawled on the rug, were no less than an half dozen dogs. It was the most motley collection of dogs possible: one sharpei, two black labs, two Australian shepherd crosses, and at least one undefinable "ur-dog". At some point I gave up counting, unable to visually separate the tangle of furry limbs.

I mustn't forget to mention the cat sprawled contentedly amongst them. That would be Marvin, the neighbourhood non-stray. I am not certain that an animal qualifies as a stray if it has more than one bed and more than three places to get food on a regular basis.

Yup, the locals had decided that it was too bloody cold outside for their dogs, and had been given permission to bring them inside, seeing as how there was no crowd, per se, but just an intimate collection of the best of the regulars.

Enter our health inspector.

We only are inspected once a year, but see our inspector a few times a month, usually for lunch on her way through the area. We have been repeatedly warned that our particular inspector is one of the most strict in the state, having been hospitalized because of food poisoning in a restaurant. I have never known her to come in at night, though. She isn't a fan of night driving on the back highways and tends to hunker down rather than extend her trips into the late evenings.

So there I am, dying the death of a thousand missed heartbeats, eyes ricocheting between the dog pile and the inspector, waiting to see how fast the "closed forever" notice can be whipped out and posted. Neither the bartender nor the server on duty had ever worked when the inspector had stopped by, so they continued on oblivious to the stench of doom that had just entered the joint. All they saw was a stranger to break up the monotony of a slow night.

I greeted her, asked how she was doing, the usual social niceties, all the while waiting for the axe to lop of my head. That would be a fun phone call to make. "Hi boss! The health inspector just closed the restaurant for the foreseeable future. If you're available, she'd like you to join us down here as soon as possible."

She surprised me, however. She looked around, took stock of the room, and asked, "Would it be alright if I brought my dog in from the car? It's a bit cold for her outside."

Well slap my face and call me "shirley".

Gotta love my bartender - her response being, "Sure, as long as she plays nicely with the other dogs who were here first and leaves the cat alone. Tommy doesn't like people or animals messin' with the cat."

Only in Montana ... only in small town Montana, my friends.