It is Boston.
"You'll start appreciating sleep when you get older", says the St. Bernard, "but stay young while you can". His wife, a deflated Miami miniature poodle with the kind of UV peril that gets cancer to blush -- waves her little plastic olive skewer previously of her martini. She then lists pills of all the -itis of the evening: Rheumatoid Arthritis. Urethritis. Tendonitis.
"I wish there was a cure-all", she whinnies to the bartender. We call him doctor. At least, I call him Doctor. Doctor prescribes two solids of Stoli. I tend not to argue with doctors.
"With all those -itis, you need more -oids," comes the prescription.
Hrumphing from the Alaskan Malamute in the corner: "I know some oyds. Like Lloyd."
Three solids in, the pound rings last call. We all glum into the bottoms of our poisons, when I get an alert from Words With Friends.
I type in Mucoid, win, tip, and dream dangerously.
It was 20.6°C with overcast. The breeze was light.