Kevin & the Hens
In the warm golden stretch of late afternoon, Kevin the Little Bartending Dog trotted across the flagstone patio of a sun-washed Airbnb in Indio, California, his tiny paws clicking softly as he surveyed the scene. A group of friends—barefoot, laughing, already halfway into vacation mode—were decorating the poolside area with inflatable flamingos, fringe garlands, and an elaborate display of themed snacks. The air smelled like citrus and sunscreen. Kevin’s nose twitched with approval.
This was the weekend bachelorette party, and Kevin had been hired to bartend.
He began setting up his station at the outdoor kitchen island beside the grill, arranging his jiggers, citrus press, and bottle selection with practiced care. He’d brought his own cooler, filled with hand-pressed juices, housemade syrups, fresh herbs, and the kind of ingredients that made people say things like, “Wait—what’s in this?!” right before they took a second sip.
As the party warmed up and music floated out of the open sliding doors, Kevin set to work. The bride-to-be had told him during their planning call that her fiancé, Paul, had one true drink love: the Aperol Spritz.
Kevin, his tail wagging thoughtfully, had nodded in agreement. A classic choice—but for an event like this, it needed just a bit of mischief.
So he made a quiet note in his tiny bartending brain: Aperol Spritz... but make it personal.
Now, at the center of his chalkboard drink menu, written in big loopy script, it read:
The AperPaul Spritz
It was still the bright, sparkling classic—Aperol, prosecco, and a splash of soda—but Kevin added a touch of fresh grapefruit juice for tartness and garnished each glass with a long twist of orange peel shaped like a P.
The reaction was instant. As the first round was served, someone let out a delighted shriek. “Wait—is it really called the AperPaul?”
Kevin gave a soft, pleased bark and continued zesting oranges with quiet concentration.
The AperPaul Spritz became the drink of the day. One guest started narrating an imaginary commercial for it in a fake Italian accent. Another insisted on filming slow-motion videos of the pour. Paul, though absent, was toasted repeatedly, his name floating above the pool like a cloud of Aperol bubbles.
Kevin, as always, stayed on task. He worked efficiently but with flair, occasionally hopping up onto a barstool to get a better vantage point of the station. Every drink was stirred or shaken with care, and his eyes were constantly scanning—gauging the mood, noticing empty glasses, reading the subtle cues that meant it was time for something fresh.
As the sun dipped behind the palm trees and the pool lights flickered on, Kevin cleared up the citrus peels, rinsed his tools, and quietly brought out a final round of mocktails for those slowing down for the night.
One guest wandered over, holding her AperPaul, now slightly watered down by the heat but still glowing. She crouched to Kevin’s level and gently scratched behind his ears. “You know,” she said, “this has been the best day. You’re kind of a genius.”
Kevin gave a modest wag and sat down neatly, paws together, nose up just slightly in pride.
The night wound down slowly. People wrapped themselves in towels, their voices softer now, recounting memories and planning for the wedding ahead. Kevin, once everything was clean and packed, curled up on a patio cushion beneath a string of lights, letting the sounds of gentle laughter and clinking glasses lull him into a warm, satisfied nap.
He’d bartended plenty of parties—but this one, with its sun-drenched joy and that perfect pun, would stay with him for a while.