Yes, a lapdog barked at a dealer. No, security wasn’t helpful. Also, how do you ban a dog from a casino?
It was a Tuesday (my “Friday”), still getting used to the rhythms of day shift. You know the vibe, 4:12 PM on the clock, but your soul is trapped in an infinite baccarat loop. Chips clicking like ominous thunder in the distance, the cocktail server nowhere to be found, presumably dealing with her own crisis of existence.
Then she arrived.
Madam Lulu. Five feet of vintage silk, lip liner like a battle cry, and a Louis Vuitton purse that occasionally twitched.
She glided into the private high-limit room like she owned the damn place. Because, technically, after what she’s dropped in the pit over the years, maybe she does.
And then it happened.
She unzipped the purse with a flourish and out popped Baby Lucky—a snow-white Pomeranian with delusions of grandeur and the vocal cords of a megachurch preacher. He blinked once, surveyed the felt, then let out a single, judgmental yap like he was the CEO of this table.
I paused.
Madam Lulu smiled.
“Oh, he just say hi,” she said, fluffing his head like a rabbit foot.
I nodded like that made any sense.
💄✨💋👠♠️🎲👠💋✨💄
The first hand played out in silence, if you ignore the high-pitched breathing coming from the direction of the purse.
Then the next hand came. Player. Banker. Tie. Player again.
And then Madam Lulu said it.
“Baby Lucky like banker. He good at pick.”
Before I could clarify that the dog does not, in fact, hold a gaming license, she set him on the cushioned stool beside her and placed one perfectly manicured hand on his little floof head.
He barked. She nodded.
Banker it was.
He won.
She gasped, kissed him on the forehead, and gave me a look like what did I tell you?
It all escalated from there.
Next hand, Lulu picks up one of her chips, waves it in front of Baby Lucky, and says, “Okay, which one, my baby?”
He yaps once, high-pitched, commanding.
She places the bet. He wins again.
I wish I were lying.
Surveillance was definitely watching.
At this point, I was expecting them to zoom in and add the dog to the comp list.
Then it happened.
Baby Lucky, in a moment of divine inspiration or caffeinated chaos, reaches out and paws the felt. Not once, but twice.
Double tap.
Madam Lulu beams. “He say double!”
“There’s no doubling in baccarat,” I mutter, but she is already placing double the chips, giving me a look that says, don’t ruin his moment.
And you know what?
He won again.
🚨🎲🐶❓🕵️♂️🐾❓🐶🎲🚨
Enter: Security
It took fifteen minutes and a whispered panic call from the pit boss before Security waddled in, half-asleep, eyes darting between the Pomeranian and the chips like he wasn’t trained for this.
“Ma’am,” he said, clearly hoping she’d just evaporate. “Uh… pets aren’t… technically… allowed…”
“He’s not pet. He is my child.”
She says it like a threat and a prophecy.
Baby Lucky barked again.
Security took a step back.
And then, bless him, the poor man actually asked me:
“So… do we, like… ban the dog? Or…?”
I looked him dead in the eye and said the thing that will haunt me forever:
“How do you ban a dog from a casino?”
He nodded solemnly and walked away. Never saw him again.
🖤🎭🌙♠️🐶♠️🌙🎭🖤
Final Thoughts from the Pit
Baby Lucky kept winning for another hour. Madam Lulu tipped me a hundred-dollar bill folded into a tiny dog origami swan. She called me “sweet boy” and blew me a kiss.
And just like that, they vanished.
Her, the purse, the luck, the fever dream.
Sometimes I still wonder—was Baby Lucky real? Or did I hallucinate the whole thing while sick during an 8-hour shift and no carbs?
Either way, if you ever hear a bark echo through the baccarat room…
just assume the banker’s about to win. 🐾
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