Water Bowls and Window Seats: Meeting the Dogs Who Really Run This Pub

Ask anyone who drinks here regularly and they'll tell you the same thing: the Brown Cow isn't really run by the landlord. It's run by a rotating committee of dogs, most of whom have better attendance records than the staff.

We got to thinking about it one damp Tuesday when we counted six dogs in the bar before half past two — a record for a weekday, we believe, though nobody's been keeping official minutes. So we decided it was high time somebody did. What follows is a field guide, of sorts, to the canine regulars of Chatburn's finest (only) pub.

The Committee

Barley, a working cocker spaniel of advancing years and firm opinions, holds the corner by the fire every Sunday from noon until the last crumb of someone's roast is cleared. His human, a farmer from up the lane who we shall call Dave because that's his name, swears Barley can hear the gravy boat being picked up from three tables away. We have no reason to doubt this.

Nutmeg, a lurcher with the posture of a Victorian widow, favours the window seat where she can survey the village green with an expression of profound disappointment. She has never once accepted a treat from staff, preferring to be offered one, refuse it, and then accept it four minutes later once her dignity is intact. This is a known ritual. We plan around it.

Then there's Raglan — Raggy to everyone — a terrier cross the size of a loaf of bread with the confidence of a lion. Raggy's preferred spot is directly under the largest table in the bar, ideally beneath the feet of whoever is eating the biggest meal. His strategy is simple and, by all accounts, devastatingly effective.

House Rules (Theirs, Not Ours)

We've never written down a formal dog policy, mostly because the dogs arrived first and made their own arrangements. But there are unwritten rules, observed by all:

• The water bowls by the door are complimentary and bottomless. The big ceramic one is for big dogs. There has been friction over this. We've ordered a second big one.
• The bar itself is strictly out of bounds, a rule respected by every dog except Raggy, who considers it a suggestion.
• Any dog who sits politely while a meal is finished may, at the discretion of the human, receive a plain sausage. This is between them and their conscience.

The Humans, Briefly

It would be dishonest to write this piece without acknowledging that the dogs do, technically, arrive attached to people. These people are mostly lovely. They order pie and a pint, they chat about the footy, and they spend the entire meal pretending not to notice that their dog is conducting a slow, strategic campaign on the person next to them.

One regular, a retired teacher with a springer named Moss, told us she chose this pub specifically because we never made her feel she'd brought a wolf into a cathedral. That's the general idea, we reckon. A pub without a dog or two sprawled across the flagstones is just a restaurant with bad lighting.

An Open Invitation

If you're walking the Pendle Way or just popping over from Clitheroe for a Sunday roast, bring the dog. Wipe the paws if it's been chucking it down, keep them off the settees if you can, and know that somebody behind the bar will almost certainly learn their name before they learn yours.

That's not a complaint. Around here, that's just good manners.