“Hey Pando,” Eddie called to me loudly from across our table, around which were seated various denizens comprising our local native wits, who were trying to enjoy Toni’s powerful overcooked and over-perked copper-colored liquid that she playfully lists as “coffee” on the menu of The Scruffy Dog Cafe. “Um, yes, uh, yeah, Eddie, whazzup?” I replied between sips. “You know how you’re always going on about the abysmal quality of Observations, Scruffy Dog Cafe, Stories, Uncategorized

It was another lazy afternoon at The Scruffy Dog Cafe with a few of us regulars shooting the breeze at our unofficial table off in the corner, masochistically waiting for refills on what the Scruffy Dog’s owner generously calls coffee on his menu. Our favorite server Toni was over at the beverage station next to the kitchen pass-through window drawing a couple of cups of coffee. The bell hanging above Scruffy Dog Cafe, Stories

“You fellas might remember that I was sent over to the IBM facility in Croydon, south of London” I began, as the customary reprobates were sitting around our usual table in The Scruffy Dog. Today there was Little Joe, still hiding from the sheriff, Lois, our guardian angel who helped keep the tone polite, Shortie, who worked at the Bar None ranch out of town and who was sloughing off Anecdotes, Scruffy Dog Cafe

oni was passing a couple of orders to Judy at the kitchen pass-through window when the bell hanging above the entrance door tinkled, indicating someone entering the restaurant. “Oh lord,” sighed Toni as she spotted the newcomer. “What now?” asked Judy, The Scruffy Dog’s premier chef. “It’s Little Joe huffin’ and puffin’ like he’s running from the law again.” Even though it was mid-October and a bit crisp outside, Little Scruffy Dog Cafe, Stories