Picture, if you will, an Old West saloon.
The dance hall girls are dancing. The piano player is banging out a can-can. The bartender is wiping down the bar. At the tables, there’s the steady slap of cards, the mumble of bets placed and countered.
Suddenly, the doors swing open. In the doorway stands a dog, wearing a ten-gallon hat, with two six-shooters strapped around his waist. His left hand is so heavily bandaged it looks like a beehive.
The dance hall dancers stop dancing. The piano player stops playing. The card players fall silent. The bartender says, “Hello, stranger. What’ll be your pleasure?”
And the dog says, “I’m looking for the man that shot my paw.”