Rex was restless. He hadn’t been allowed out in a very long time. His brain was simmering from the overload of sensory input, especially given the circumstances. Bodies pressed in on him from all sides, a panting, slavering pack of male hounds, all shouldering and chuffing at each other in an instinctive display of dominance and bravado. Rex wasn’t much bothered by them — he wasn’t so much ‘above all that’ as simply unperturbed by their nervous, ego-driven compulsions.
Rex’s human had gradually, over time, become "The Master of Low Expectations", so Rex was on a long lead. Having been out to a lot of these events, his human assumed nothing much would come of this long-avoided foray into the real world of adult singles in a nondescript bar downtown. (Nothing had ever come of previous forays for a couple of years, though, to be honest with himself, he didn’t ‘work it very hard.')
His human was checking his phone, so Rex's portion of their brain relaxed, scanning the room for females, eyeing a few: a Chow with interesting curves, a Spaniel with a nervous, “don’t invade my personal space” glare, a Golden Retriever who looked like she had some Fox Terrier bred into her bloodline some time back. None caught his fancy.
Another alpha male pushed his way past Rex to the bar, a silver-haired Weimearaner. Rex made room so he could order a drink. Rex’s human said, “More men than women tonight. That’s never good.”
“You can smell the testosterone in the air. We’ll just have to ‘man-up’! My name’s Stan.” He held out his paw and Rex’s human shook it, shared his name and they chatted for a few moments before Stan said, “I’m going to cruise around. Maybe Ms. Right is here!”
