The Silver Whistle

At six o'clock every Thursday, the back room of the Silver Whistle filled with its usual patrons. Gruff chaps in tweed, with hearts of gold. Salt of the earth, etc. Shortly after, the room thickened with cigar smoke and traces of bourbon breath. Bruno, a retired greyhound with a pinstripe vest and a wicked top spin, chalked his cue like it owed him something.

Milo the Jack Russell barked over bad calls. Wilfred the bulldog banker negotiated side bets with Toffee, an obsessive corgi statistician. Nigel, a sleek border collie, looked as though he were flying hell for leather while sitting still. He followed the shining balls around the green velvet with quick, sharp eyes.

Everyone grumbled when Rex stepped up to the table. A golden retriever with silky fur and movie-star charisma, Rex worked the angles like a pro, glasses perched halfway down his muzzle.

Frank, the bartender, busied himself with cleaning a glass. He might have had one eye on the back room, but he had his other eye on the whole establishment. He was a very watchful sort, thick-necked, and chocolate-eyed, with metal links clinking around his neck every time he moved his muscled bulk.

A bloodhound slid down from his seat, leaving his newspaper on the table. The boxer on the bench sidled closer to nose through the headlines.

"Leaving already, Sarge?" Nigel asked.

Sarge flicked his droopy eyes to the clock in the corner.

"Nine p.m.," he growled cheerfully. "Supper. Mustn't be late."

"Poker on Tuesday, Sarge?" Milo yipped after him.

"You bet," Sarge called back, tail wagging slowly.

Glasses clinked. Some moseyed home. Some stayed. The boxer was still there when Frank called last orders. He tucked the newspaper under his arm and ambled out into the chilly evening air. Frank didn't know where he went. Not his business.

Frank straightened the No Cats sign, slid the bolts, cashed up the till, and turned out the lights.

Just another night at the Silver Whistle.