The other night I had a beer with Hey Porter. We had a Pabst together. I drank from the bottle, he lapped from his bowl. When a dog drinks beer the carbonation normally throws them for a bit of a loop. Generally, it’s the first time they experience fizz. This was not Porter’s first Pabst – he’s probably lapped up a six-pack or better in his lifetime – but the fizz still surprised him. His tongue spooned up a few sips, and then his head recoiled back and up away from the bowl. He kept lapping his lips, only a little faster like he’d kissed an open packet of pop rocks.
After the fizz comes the flavor, the rush of fruitful waves of grain and goodness, the amber nectar that both man and dog find flavorful enough to warrant lap after lap. And if the dog is anything like Porter, after each lap, he, like me, goes into a brief solitude of wonderment. He lapped. He laid. He pondered. I lapped. I sat. I pondered.