Kate hasn't heard a thunder crack like that since last summer in Texas, during a particularly awesome storm.

Only, this ain't thunder.

This is fourteen-hundred pounds of pure cut sulk.

Once Kate has his sea-legs under him and is sure none of the bottles or glasses are in danger of breaking, he hops on the Bar, bracing himself on his arms. Dug's gone like a limp noodle  —  roughly even the same color.

This is about the point where Kate would normally conjure the subject's full name, but since Dug doesn't have one he's just going to have to wing it.

"Douglas The Melodramatic Dog, are you givin' up?"