The Person I'm Next To Is A Dog, And It Shouldn't Be Next To Me

I'm next to this dog. I overheard it's owner referring to it as an Irish setter. I also heard him referring to it as a him. It is not a him, it is an it. I won't blanket this statement over all dogs, but this one is certainly a monster, and doesn't deserve a gender.
This thing reeks, like decaying meat. Its scent makes me wonder if this is really a dog zombie, a shambling decaying canine corpse that through mystical or viral means has remained animated post mortem. So you know, it smells bad. Normally I would be annoyed that this thing existed, but then give it no further thought. But it is inside, next to me, sitting.
It's bullshit owner just walks it into the cafe I am sitting in. He hastily mutters something of an apology for bringing this creature inside, but begins ordering without waiting for an answer. This is an eatery! There is food here! Food I'm going to eat! This privileged son of a bitch just marched this moving pile of filth in. I can almost see the cartoonish fog of odor and disease floating off of the pustulant hound and creeping into the food and drink of respectable human beings. Why doesn't he bathe this beast, or heaven forbid if he needs to be at its side, just take your meals and coffee at home. Keep your quadrupedal plague out of public establishments.
Plus he didn't tip well, 76 cents.

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