“George, I'm not so sure about this. Isn't it against health and safety regulations to take animals into restaurants?”

“Don't fret, Marjorie. You saw the sign on the door – 'pets welcome'. We can't leave Poochie out in the rain!”

And with that, George's wife Marjorie was convinced, and the two of them – or three of them, if we're including Poochie – entered the Chinese restaurant, taking a seat by the window and gazing out upon the drizzly, dreary night that had enveloped central London. It'd been a nice vacation for them so far – the crowds of Oxford Street and the heaps of Japanese tourists had been dificult to adjust to at first, but by-and-large the Barringtons were enjoying their break away from their hometown of Bleakville. Of course, a holiday was never complete for the couple, who had no children and no village fetes to attend, without their pet poodle Poochie. Once a blue-ribbon winner at the local dog show, Poochie was now a retired show girl, who received regular grooming sessions and walks in the park every Tuesday evening.

George tucked a napkin into Poochie's collar, and unfolded the menu before him. “Ah, how delightful,” he said, immediately looking to the 'Traditional English' section of the menu. “They do all-day breakfasts, what do you say to that?”

“Oh George, I do wish you'd eat more healthily,” Marjorie said, passing her eyes over the exotic-sounding names of the Chinese dishes. “All that bacon and fat will play havoc with your stomach pains.”

“I know, Marge, I know. But there's nothing like coming out for a nice meal whilst we're on holiday, eh? Might as well sample all the different cultures whilst we can! Let's make the most of it, and go for two rashers of bacon, three sausages and a peeled-plum tomato.”

Marjorie sighed, shaking her head. “Okay dear, you have the all-English, and I'll have some noodles.”

“Noodles?” George spluttered, rubbing at the lense of his spectatles with a handkerchief. “I'll have no such foreign nonsense whilst we're still in this country, my dear. It's all-English or all out, I'm afraid!”

And with that, George's wife Marjorie gave in and opted for an all-English breakfast, much the same as her husband's (though she decided to skip on the tomatoes). “What about Poochie, dear? You don't suppose they'd be able to feed the old girl while we eat our food?”

“Don't fret my love, I'll have everything sorted.” George assured his wife, raising his left hand and signalling impatiently at a passing waiter.

“Hallo, you order?” The waiter asked in fragmented English, his eyes locking on the poodle sat pleasantly in the chair before him.

“Err, yes please, dear fellow. We'll have two all-English breakfasts – steady on the toms for the wife though, she's none too fond of them this time of the month – and a dish of Chum for Poochie.”

The waiter looked at them blankly, hesitantly glancing at the dog. “You want dog eat?”

George nodded, pointing to Poochie and then at his mouth. “You'll feed the dog as well, won't you? She's awfully hungry, the poor thing. Chop the meat up nice and fine, mind. She has a weak stomach these days.”

The waiter's eyes flicked to Marjorie, and a look of realisation dawned upon him. He smiled and nodded at George. “Ah, yes, I take dog and feed her?”

“Yes please, dear chap. Do be quick with our breakfasts.”

And with that, Poochie was whisked from her seat, napkin and all. George and his wife sat quietly for a while, recounting their last holiday experience in Wales, where they had made good friends with a shepherd and his wife, who lived on a farm with sheep.

“Awfully nice fellow, that, oh, what was his name?”

“Whitely, dear. And his wife's name was-”

“Geraldine, yes, I remember now. Terribly good of them to let us camp out in their barn, don't you think? I was apprehensive at first, but once I'd seen the wonderful modernisations they'd done to the loft, I knew we'd made the right decision to stay for a week. It'd be lovely to have them up at our place sometime, don't you think?”

“Oh yes, dear.” Marjorie replied. “They could bring their dog too, he was very delightful and Poochie did seem to love his company.”

“Without sounding like a snob, dear wife, I hardly want a farmyard mongrel cavorting with my Poochums – perhaps they could leave dear Woofy, or whatever his name was-”

“-Rover-”

“-Yes dear, Woofer-at home. Then just the four of us – and Poochie of course – can sit down for a nice pot of tea. Earl grey, of course – we must try to refine these folks, after all.”

Marjorie nodded, looking up from the table as the waiter returned with their plates. George took one look at his plate of bacon, sausages, eggs and tomatoes and knew he'd made the right choice – he never had been one for trying new things. “This looks sublime,” he said, coating his sausages in brown sauce. “I love the way these people adapt to our culture so willingly.”

“Mine's a little chewy,” Marjorie said, struggling with the painfully thin slices of bacon that had been burnt to a crisp and dumped on her plate. “I think perhaps they wanted me to try something exotic after all.”

“Well don't complain dear, they have slaved over this for a minimal wage after all. Eat up and let's get going, before they start expecting a tip.”

And with that, Marjorie ate the rest of her prized poodle Poochie, nose and all, without so much as a hint of another complaint. She didn't want to upset her husband, after all, as he had had a very testing week at the office shortly before coming away on holiday. With their meals finished with, the waiter returned with their bill (which George paid for via personal cheque) and also Poochie's diamond-studded collar, complete with a ringlet of fur attached.

“Dog fed her, yes? She go quick.” The waiter said, smiling. “Your food satisfactory?”

“Yes thanks,” George said, eyeing the collar warily. “I say, are you trying to tell us that our dog has run away?”

The rest of the night was an eventful one for George and Marjorie Barrington, as they rang around various dog shelters and kennels in the search for their beloved pet. George swore never to visit a Chinese restaurant again and banned any mention of the word 'noodle' within his presence, and Marjorie had terrible indigestion for the next week or so. Neither of them had the imagination to figure out that the waiter had in fact skinned and roasted Poochie alive and served her on a platter to Mrs. Barrington, though perhaps it is best that she never knows this, as she does have a rather weak heart.