one pub and its dog

Standing at the bar at my local the other day, I stopped to pat the head of Archie, the pub dog, who reacted, as usual, by going a bit mad and panting enthusiastically. Part of the reason I was paying him so much occasion, on that instance, is that I was aware that the woman standing to my left, drinking her umpteenth drink of the evening, was really sloshed, and putting them away with grim determination. By playing with Archie, perhaps I would avoid a conversation while I awaited my drinks.

Not so.

"He's a nice dog", my bar companion said.

I nodded. "He is".

"Is he yours?"

"No".

Something about the way she received this information made me understand her to have taken my clearly enunciated 'no' as a 'yes'.

She mulled it over. "How old is he?"

"I don't know", I said, as firmly and clearly as I could.

She looked surprised. She looked at me, and at the dog, then back at me again.

"Ten!?", she said, clearly perplexed that he did not look it.