I guess his last experiment with Southern Comfort didn't teach him.
Last night, I poured myself a large Bushmills, which I intended to sip as I read my latest Sean Dillon adventure. (They actually kind of suck because Higgins recycles so many plot devices, but I'm hooked...help!)
As I sat in my gun room reading, I set my glass down on top of a case of ammunition that I was using as an end table and thought nothing of it as Lagniappe walked over to me. I reached over and gave him a pat on the head and a scratch behind the ears and continued reading, expecting him to either lie down or leave again and retire to his dog bed.
Lagniappe apparently had other, more nefarious intentions. He stuck his muzzle into my glass and took a couple of laps of my whiskey.
"DAMMIT!" I yelled as he backed up, pivoted, and ran for the stairs. Not only are dogs not supposed to drink, but Bushmills is a bit too pricey for that. And even though he only had a tiny bit, I had to dump it and pour a fresh drink because the rest of the glass wasn't quite as appealing with dog spit in it.
Stupid dog...that's coming out of your allowance.
At least he's got good taste.
Bushmills Irish Whiskey--the drink of choice for discriminating ex-police dogs.