Fred Bruning: FDA OKs outdoor dining for dogs, but idea lacks appeal 

Take a doggie to dinner?

The U.S. Food and Drug Administration said recently it's okay for Buster or Blondie to eat outside at restaurants and New York State is on board, too.

Me? Not sure.

This may hint at speciesism — uppity humans claiming superiority — but I'm pleading innocent.

Out walking, I say, “Hello, pal,” to any mutt or designer doodle on the route.

At a prudent distance, I offer my hand.

I whistle like a teapot and click my tongue by way of introduction. I make ridiculous kissy sounds with pursed lips — honest effort, in other words.

Even if, as often is the case, the animal responds only with mild curiosity or by backing away from the oddball intruder, I turn to the owner and say: “Nice dog.”

As a boy in Brooklyn, I had a plastic bank the shape of a Scottish Terrier and, penny by penny, hoped that when the Scottie was filled, I would trade it at the pet store for a real-life replacement — a loyal companion who would slobber me with grateful smooches and make up for my parents' perplexing failure to provide a brother or sister.

Never happened.

Otherwise indulgent, Mom and Dad quickly nixed the scheme of their only child.

Our apartment was too small, no one was home during the day for walks, I would get tired of the chore before long, barking would annoy the neighbors.

“Maybe a goldfish,” suggested Dad. “Cheap. Quiet.”

No thanks. I'd bide my time.

Accordingly, shortly after our wedding, my wife, Wink, and I headed to the local dog pound in the college town where we — married as undergraduates! — attended a state university. Before us, sad and shuddering in a cage, was a sweet, mid-sized Shetland Sheepdog, or Sheltie, mix.

We brought him back to our basement apartment, named him George after a favorite professor and fed him a hamburger by way of saying welcome home.

George lived long enough to greet each of our four children with practiced nonchalance and an occasional growl to indicate he did not wish to be disturbed while napping or during meals.

Not long after George came Fernando, a stray Beagle pulled from a waterway in Bayport by a neighborhood boy and adopted by our gang.

“Kids found a dog,” said Wink, reaching me at work.

“Uh-huh.”

“What do you think?”

“Does it matter?”

Fernando, named for the Los Angeles Dodgers pitcher who had a habit of looking heavenward before every delivery, ran circles around the yard when the kids came home from school in happy expectation that he soon would be sampling treats intended for human consumption  —Fluffernutters, maybe, or Fig Newtons.

Though he proved a skilled escape artist who would wander for hours and return at midnight caked with muck from some glorious mud hole, Fernando was worth the effort. A little while ago, our children gave us a painting of Fernie. His eyes are cast to the side, as though searching for an open door, ready to make a break, gaining an early lead, the kids in wild pursuit. Miss him, all right, dear Fernie.

So, no question, I'm down with dogs. 

FDA advisory aside, I'm ambivalent about the outdoor dining idea, wondering when a passer-by will trip on a leash or step in a water bowl, or that there will be a ruckus of some sort as I am about to sample my $20 crab cake sandwich.

We were on the porch of a lovely restaurant on the South Shore recently enjoying a spring afternoon with friends when a woman arrived with two tiny white dogs.

Before long, the pair began yapping but their owner smiled as though the animals were merely debating lunch selections — steak tidbits or tuna tacos. My inclination was to offer her a free meal at another restaurant — something overlooking the ocean at distant Montauk Point, where her pals could compete with the crashing surf.

Instead, I returned to the crab cake and reminded myself that in France and other European countries, dogs are permitted not only on porches and patios but inside restaurants, too. Trés sophisticated, I suppose, but come on. When servers balancing plates of foie gras or frog legs are sidestepping tables of over-privileged pooches, what could possibly go wrong?