Second Chances Part 4: Of Tales Told
San Francisco: The Modern Day
It was another night at the little tuck-away hole in the wall in the city by the bay’s alleys, the small bar known as the Flea Bite Cafe. Drinks were flowing straight from the tap, laughter was aplenty. One table in particular, while taking in the music flowing from a nearby jukebox. Some dog had slipped in a jazz record, titled Babysoul of all things. Still a good record, but name needed work in one dog’s opinion.
That dog? Charlie B. Barkin, conman extraordinaire and one of those dogs your mother would have warned you to stay away from. That old song “He’s a Tramp” might have fit him, if you were to make a comparison. Some sort of German Shepard/Collie mix, amongst with perhaps a few other breeds thrown in for good measure, he was a mutt if there ever was one. But somehow, he was an attractive looking mutt. (A mutt, who had a nearly identical twin who was somehow a show dog, but that was another story) Quite a
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