A town back in the Old West, a saloon on the main street. It’s a hot dusty afternoon and the saloon is deserted. The piano player sits at a table, nodding off after reading the paper. Early customers have come and gone. The bar girls are all sleeping. The only person working is the bartender, who’s getting ready for the evening crowd. He’s checking his stock, arranging empty beer mugs and shot glasses, making sure everything’s okay. The bartender’s back is to the empty room.
Suddenly, “Bartender, gimme a beer!”
The bartender turns around, ready to serve a customer, but there’s nobody at the bar. He shrugs, thinks he’s been working too many hours, turns back to his glasses.
“Bartender, are you deaf? Gimme a damn beer!”
Bartender turns again, still sees nobody. But then, just at the railing, he sees a quarter being waved in the air. Bartender leans over, looks down, and much to his surprise, he sees a little dog standing at the bar, one foot on the rail. The dog is white and black spotted, black patch over one eye. He’s holding the quarter in his fuzzy paw.
Little dog taps the quarter on the bar, says “I’m thirsty and I want a beer. Gimme a beer!”
Well, the bartender’s seen a lot in his day but he’s never seen a dog order a beer. Nevertheless he’s a tough old dude and quickly recovers. “We don’t serve Indians and we sure as hell don’t serve dogs. Y’all git on outta here!”
“My quarter’s as good as anybody else’s. Gimme a damn beer!”
“You git out of here ‘fore I git my dander up!” Bartender feels a little silly, arguing with a dog, but you play the hand you’re dealt.
“Bartender, if you don’t give me a beer, I’m gonna pee all over your bar!” And to emphasize, the little dog raises one leg, threateningly.
Bartender’s had enough. He reaches down behind the bar, comes up with his old Colt Army model. “You just try it, I’ll shoot you!”
“Last chance, Bartender, beer or pee!”
In reply, the bartender just cocks the big revolver. And sure enough, the little dog raises his leg as if to carry out his threat. Without further warning, the bartender aims the gun down over the counter and fires!
Due to the severe angle, the shot misses. The dog leaps in the air, then runs toward the batwing doors to the street. This time the bartender has more time, takes careful aim, and fires again. His shot hits the dog in the rear foot, a grazing wound. The dog yelps in pain and surprise as it runs away, out of sight.
One year later…
It’s a muggy night. Two trail herds are in town and the bar is packed, thirsty cowboys standing three and four deep at the bar to get served. The bartender and his assistants are busy, pouring drinks and pulling beers. The bar girls are working the crowd, the piano player thumping out tunes.
Then, as if by some signal, all eyes turn to the bar’s front door. The batwing doors swing open, and there, framed in the darkness, is the little dog.
The piano goes silent. No one speaks. Everyone watches the dog. It’s standing on its hind legs, and is wearing two sixguns, tied low.
The dog strides slowly to the center of the room. It pauses, turns to look at the crowd, then says:
“I’m lookin’ for the man what shot my paw!”
Dont do anything you wont like explaining to the paramedics..............