a dog walks into a bar

He canters up to the cafe draped like a blanket over the back of his horse. It's 5:30 in the morning. The sun is creeping up over the bay. Seagulls begin to drop oysters from their hover, hoping to crack them on the first pass and feast before the sun gets to ten o'clock.
Peachy Conklin is too drunk to notice any of this from atop his palomino. The customers at the coffee counter (two gill netters, three draggers, one scratcher, five shinglers. and seven framers) are staring down at their muddy cups and wincing silently into their respective hangovers.
Peachy stumbles into the cafe, arms flailing wildly for balance, words tumbling out of his frothed mouth like bats from a cave. He smells of after shave and bourbon.
"Give me two eggs, toast, coffee, and give me some fuckin' corn flakes for my horse."
The waitress calls the order into the kitchen and the cook cracks the eggs onto the oily griddle. The waitress pours four small boxes of Kellogg's into a mixing bowl and slides it across the counter to Peachy.
"Much obliged," he says.
The palomino waits patiently at the split rail fence, his eyes hooded and his neck rounded as he nibbles on the dry August grass. He perks up when the screen door slaps shut and Peachy falls out holding the white ceramic bowl in both hands like a chalice.
"You ordered the corn flakes?" Peachy asks.