On his way back from a race meeting in the Scotland, a London bookie walks into a tiny, remote pub in the Highlands. There are a few old locals in there, a jolly fat lady at the bar and a scottie dog lying under a table.
The guy gets his pint, turns to the locals at the few tables and raises his glass. "Cheers."
"Aye, good health," they all murmur.
"Down the hatch," says the dog.
The bookie pauses. He looks at the dog. He takes another sip.
"Nice day," he says, to the general assembly.
"Aye, no' bad at all," a couple of the locals agree.
"Rain tomorrow, though," remarks the dog.
Again, the guy looks at the dog - and then at the locals.
"Did that dog just speak?" he asks.
The locals shrug. "Oh, aye. Ye cannae shut him up."
"Huh," the dog mutters.
The guy gets out his wallet. "Who owns the dog?"
A wizened old Highlander raises his hand. "That'll be me."
"I'll give you a hundred pounds for him."
"Whish! For tha' aul' dog? Put ye money awa', man."
"Two hundred."
"I cannae take yer money. Yer crazy! Sit yeself doon an' have a drink. Ferget it."
"Three hundred!"
Eventually the guy buys the dog for five hundred pounds.
"I cannae see what you like so much about tha' dog," the old Scot says, grinning broadly as he pockets the cash.
"He just took my fancy, for some reason," the guy says.
He puts the dog in the back of the car and hits the road. The dog sleeps all the way to London.
The bookie doesn't even go home - he drives straight to his local pub, and rushes in with the dog under his arm. "Don't say a word till I tell you," he whispers to the dog. The dog blinks.
The guys mates all hello him, ask him about his trip.
"Quite eventful actually," he says. "I bought a talking dog."
This throwaway snippet is received with dismissive hilarity.
"No," says the guy. "Straight up. This dog can talk." He puts the dog on a table, and it sits there looking at the blokes gathering round. "Who'll put a fiver on it?"
"Give me two-to-one, I'll put a tenner on it," says a bloke at the back.
"Fair enough," says our man. "Two-to-one."
"Make it five-to-one, I'll go twenty nicker," says another.
"Fine - I'll cover all bets at five-to-one," says the bookie.
Following a flurry of wagering activity, there's a little over a grand on the table in front of the dog.
"Right," says the bookie, turning to the scottie, "perhaps you'd like to say a few words."
The dog blinks.
"Off you go," says the bookie. "Just tell them how we met, or something."
The dog tips his head to one side, staring back at the bookie.
"Pay up," says one of the guys crowded round the table.
The bookie leans down to the dog. "Look, a simple hello will do," he hisses.
The dog licks his face.
The crowd begin to stir. "Come on - I've got fifty quid on at five-to-one. Let's see it."
"Say something, you stupid little furball!"
At which point a poodle is brought in to the pub, and the scottie dog stands up on the table and starts to bark like mad, scrabbling to get down.
Red-faced and steaming, the bookie pays the punters - completely wiping out his takings from the Scottish race meeting, and a lot more - and then he grabs the scottie dog by the collar and storms out to the pub. He heads straight for the canal. He swings the dog by its collar, aiming for the centre of the water.
"Bloody useless stupid dog. I've never been so embarrassed. Best of six grand down the tubes. Well, that's it - that's your lot..."
The dog is choking, strangled by being swung from his collar, but as he's swung out over the canal he manages to croak, "Don't be a bloody idiot! Think of the odds you'll be able to offer next time..."
