Once Floyd was finished, the bartender and I sat there in gaped-mouth silence, not unlike at the end of a brilliant piece of chamber music. Then, in unison, we unloaded a barrage of shit on him.

"You call that a nice story?" the bartender said.

"That's the way you want a pet to go if they have to?" I said with a thwack of a cocktail napkin on his head. "That is horrifying!"

"How could you see your dog carried away like that in pain?" she pleaded.

"Hey!" Floyd protested. "Survival of the fittest! The dog was killed by another animal. That's the best way to go."

I suppose one could say that the lil' Yorkie could've stayed "safe" in one room in that house, never venturing out into the yard. I guess we could say that life — real life — takes risks, and we are all only seconds from being swooped up by a giant bird and slowly eviscerated and fed to its young. I sort of got Floyd's point. The bartender, on the other hand, was just sort of bummed. I left her a nice tip.

"Ready to venture out?" I said to Floyd. Then we went to Thee Parkside and watched a godawful metal band. You know, really lived.

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