Your Will was at the Boar’s Head this day, paying little heede to Old Tom, who hath neither sense nor good disposition but will assault the eares of those near him. Though I didst try to carry me away from his bootless chatter, he follow’d me to the steps of the tavern. No sooner did I pass the threshholde when I did espie Ben Jonson, with massive cur behind him, suche as would bait the bears at Bankside.
“What, ho, thou hast a son?” I call’d to him.
“No, Will, though he look like he is the sire of some conquest of yours,” Jonson didst bite back. “As I walked through Bankside this morn, I saw some man kick the poor fellow and bellow at it: ‘Weak dog! If thou will not fight, thou will not eat!’ The brute then threw rocks at mutt until the beast would no more return to his brutal master for fear of injurie.” Ben did frown at the dog, which was breathing heavie, and your Will almost did believe the beast wink’d at me.
“I offer’d the beast kind worde,” Ben sighed. “And now he doth follow me about London.”
Old Tom grunted and blocked the tavern door. “That dog cannot come in the Boar’s Head.”
“Oh, verily,” I laughed. “It would be the cleanest item in the tavern. Ben, your dog—“
“He’s not mine,” Ben scowled.
“Methinks he is,” your Will laughed. For just then, the poor creature crawled itself and laid him down at Ben’s feet. “He needs a name, Master Jonson.”
“I’d like an ale,” Ben said to Olde Tom, as he paid me no heed.
Old Tom grunted. “Your dog cannot come in the Boar’s Head.”
“He’s not MY dog,” Ben grunted in return.
What say you, Grounglyngs? What should we name the poor beast? State a name at Shakesblogging on Facebook, and we shall all vote on the winner.