The Mad Dog is infamous; it sits on the hill up from Frog Hollow proper, just outside of Dargan, the adjoining infamous village of moonshiners and tax evaders.I'm proud to tell you that we have a bit of a connection to the bar -- dear George's first girlfriend was the daughter of the owner, whom locals call Boss Hog (he drives a beat up white Caddy while smoking a stogy). Apparently, Boss Hog was having a hard time keeping the place open most evenings, and just recently it seems to have enjoyed a bit of a revival under the new management of his brother -- or maybe it's brother-in-law . . . I hear that on weekend evenings the sharp turn in the road there is packed with cars (I wouldn't know since I don't get out much at night . . . ).
I'll never forget when I first learned of the Mad Dog. It was the first time I had ever gone to George's house (at the time, a trailer at the bottom of our property). We were watching a movie when the road lit up with police and ambulance sirens and lights; excitement in the Hollow! Upon calling Aunt Barb to get word from her scanner, we learned that "someone had his skull cracked from a cue stick at the Mad Dog." Immediately, I was intrigued! It took several years before I finally convinced George to take me in so I could check out the place. One night we were hanging out down at the Moore's when Vanessa and I convinced the guys to take us in for a quick visit. It lived up to my expectations: a dirt floor, two kinds of canned beer served out of a Coleman cooler for a buck, and a jerry-rigged Johnny-on-the-Spot attached to the side for desperate relief. Apparently, the new management has spruced up the place; from the web page I can see they now have a floor!
