The Black Mat—a dining establishment I’ve frequented for years—leaves much to be desired. After attracting a large ant population in August, The Black Mat relocated from The Kitchen to The Porch in an attempt to reimagine its outdated dining concept.

The new ambiance is far worse than the original. No longer is there a woven rug over which to crunch each morsel of Hill’s Prescription Diet Dental Care Kibble. Instead, expect to dine on slippery wooden slats with big slots in between. On rainy evenings, one’s left dodging water droplets and falling acorns.

Customer service is, as before, abysmal. It requires at least three begs, a yip, and an emphatic paw stomp to get any attention from the staff, who are often heads down in books or on their phones. It's inexcusable.

The food itself remains uninspiring—a thoughtless concoction of dehydrated brewer’s rice, pieces of corn, chicken bits, chicken liver flavor (not actual chicken liver, mind you), and several other tortured ingredients not found in nature.

Wait time—at least ten seconds—is unbearable, and the preparation is spotty. Far too often I’ve had to whimper six times, yelp once, and bark twice to send dishes back to the kitchen because they didn’t include the standard sprinkle of freeze-dried chicken treats. (Reminiscent of the Gerber Baby Chicken of my childhood, these tiny bits of real chicken are the only remotely redeemable ingredient of The Black Mat’s standard dish.)

Sure, The Black Mat occasionally serves real chicken and rice. But the price for such a basic preparation of edible ingredients—vomiting, at least two days of diarrhea, and a trip to the vet—is offensive. Plus, no one has an appetite after the vet.

The only thing that keeps me coming back to The Black Mat is the reliability of an 8:30 PM daily happy hour—a Greenie Dental Treat for a quick sit.

That, and the belly rubs.

Several times, I’ve complained to management only to watch them confiscate my beloved plush squirrel toy, throw it across the room, and demand I retrieve it.

The nerve.

Beyond its lackluster ambiance, ghastly preparation, and appalling service, The Black Mat is a void of creativity and genuine pleasure. Whoever imagines the menu has not appreciated the satisfying crunch of a pink-lady apple slightly browned, half-chewed, and covered in carpet fuzz. They don’t understand the divine and deeply satisfying complexity of peanut butter—a substance that invites strict obedience in the most devious among us. Never have they savored juicy fecal rabbit pellets freshly laid in spring grass. They don’t seem to appreciate how these delightful spheres of digested and fermented weeds, twigs, and Hosta leaves are brimming with fiber, digestive enzymes, B vitamins, and fantastic flavor.

It’s time The Black Mat expanded its horizon. I’d love to see the complex aromatics of hairy legs marinated for several hours in salty sweat and gym bacteria. Better yet, there would be a bird carcass, dried for several weeks in the sun, meat and feathers still clinging to the bones. Deconstructed kale from the grocery bag, wrinkled blueberries tumbled from the composter, and delicately arranged pieces of shredded cheese would be mouthwatering additions to the menu. Even a cocktail of post-sex shower water would elevate the experience. Gosh, I would even settle for a plate of my own dried eye boogers softened with saliva. The Park once served a congealed filet of deer droppings rolled in dried leaves—the serving size was significantly larger than my head. Now that’s a dish worth a beg.

Until I see some improvements, I’d rather pout by the front window and appreciate the zesty umami of my own crotch. At least until I’m hungry again.