Jim Hull's Version
(Please cite the author if you quote from this work)
The saloon was noisy, a boisterous poker game at one table, a major flirtation between dancers and cowboys at another, the drinks were coming tall and fast from the bar, and the piano player was tinkling out his best tunes. The swinging doors flew open. A sudden, terrified silence fell on the room. Silhouetted in the doorway stood the most dangerous critter they knew: Three-Legged Dawg.
The big pooch chinked his spurs on over to the bar, which cleared itself of customers mighty quick. Three-Legged Dawg leaned on the counter.
The bartender obliged, pouring nervously from a bottle that clattered against the glass. The bartender swallowed hard and asked, "S-say, Three-Legged Dawg, wh-what b-brings ya here?"
Three-Legged Dawg reached across, grabbed the bartender by the lapels, yanked him to within inches of his own snout, and growled: "I'm lookin' fer the man that shot my PAW."
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