So I was sitting in Searchlight, Nevada at the Nugget, talking to the bartender, and this guy comes in with a big fat Labrador retriever, walks up to the bar. He says to the bartender, “My dog wants to buy a round for the house.”
The bartender gives him the hairy eyeball, then looks at the dog. The dog wags his tail happily, then barks. Bartender says “We don’t run tabs. Your dog’ll have to pay up front.” You know, thinking he’s called the guy’s bluff.
But the guy leans over the dog, slides his collar around — which I suddenly notice has huge gems on it, rubies and emeralds set in gold — zips open a compartment and pulls out a small roll of thousand-dollar bills. He peels one off, hands it to the bartender, and puts the rest back into the dog collar. The house gets a round while the waitress runs over to the casino teller to get change.
Dog comes over to me, and I pet him for a second, the man watching me closely — making sure I don’t pocket the collar, most likely. I look up at him and start to ask but he cuts me off. “Why’s my dog so rich, right? That’s what you wanna know?” I nod.
He takes a sip of the beer the bartender hands him, sets it back on the bar. “Couple years back I was heading to Vegas on Route 95. It was only about ten am, but it was already hot as hell, 120 degrees. I’m doing maybe 65, not in any hurry and right around the turnoff to Laughlin I see this guy, skinny as a rail, running back and forth in the desert all confused. I figure he’s lost and he’s sure as hell gonna die by afternoon so I pull over, back up about a hundred yards to where I saw him. When I get out of the car he comes charging up to me, whimpering and crying, scared out of his wits. No collar, no tags, nothing.”
“Someone dumped him there?” I ask.
“Yeah, probly. Anyway, I’m in no position to take care of a dog, you see — lived in a trailer back then, no room — so I get my cell phone and call animal control. I tell them I found this guy and can they come get him.
“The woman on the phone asks if I’m sure he doesn’t belong to a neighbor or something, so I say ‘Look, lady, there’s nothing out here but tortoises and creosote. He’s in the middle of the desert, he has no idea what he’s doing out here, and he just clearly doesn’t belong.’” He shakes his head, takes another long swig off the beer.
“So what happened?” I ask, a little impatiently.
He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, swallows. “Feds gave him a two billion dollar solar grant.”
Well, I sure didn’t see that coming!
Searchlight - home of Harry Reid. No wonder the dog got the grant
RUFFl!
bwa ha.
If only it was funny, though.
Thanks for the comic relief. That was a well-told, suspenseful piece and even though I saw your earlier post on the Desert Forum, I did not see the ending coming.
Hahahahaha!!!!
Naw….had to be a coyote in dogs clothing
So what was the dog’s name?
ba dum pssh!
Haha! (how did you think of this story?) I’ve been to that Nugget, I could see that happening.
Last weekend I met the dog Michael Gordon found at Halloran Springs, so that probably had something to do with it.
Very funny, had me fooled until the end.
Well, you sucked me in, funny. Be good.
Is this a “guy walks into a bar” joke, or a shaggy dog story? Sort of reminds of the intro to a Tim Powers novel too.