Talk about pouring one out for your dog. Above a little ledge at the entrance to the handicap bathroom at this classic midtown watering hole, next to plaques remembering police officers and firefighters killed on September 11, sits one of the bar’s most beloved patrons, a deceased, stuffed collie named Skippy. “Rumor has it, Skippy used to run the numbers to the bookie across the street while the guys were drinking here at the bar,” says general manager Mike Long. Skippy was a stray that died in the mid-’60s. Before that, and like many who’ve frequented the bar since it was first established in 1884, he always found a cool drink and familiar faces whenever he popped in. Long says the bar’s patrons felt a kind of collective ownership of Skippy, and when he died, a number of them chipped in to get him stuffed by a taxidermist. P.J. Clarke’s then became Skippy's permanent home, one over which he keeps watch day and night. “I like to joke with people that sometimes you can still hear him bark,” says Long. Good boy.