THE TALKING DOG

Broder walks into a bar with a dog on a leash. "Bartender," he says, "I'll have a scotch on the rocks, and a whiskey sour for my dog."

"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't allow dogs in here."

"Just a minute," the dog says. "I'm not used to being treated this way. Maybe you've never seen a talking dog."

"Don't give me no talking dog, mister," the bartender tells Broder. "You're not the first ventriloquist we've had in here."

"Wait, you've got it all wrong," says Broder. "I'll go across the street to get a newspaper, and I'll leave the dog here. Then you'll see."

When Broder is gone, the dog says, "Hey, pal, what happened to my whiskey sour?"

The bartender is astonished. "Sure, right away. It's on the house. I can't believe this. Say, would you do me a favor? Here's ten bucks. My wife works in the restaurant next door. Would you mind going in and ordering a coffee to go? This will make her day, and you can keep the change."

"Fine," says the dog, who takes the money and leaves. A moment later, Broder returns to the bar. "Hey, where's Oliver?"

"He *can* talk," says the bartender. "I gave him ten bucks to surprise my wife. Here, I'll go with you."

As they leave the bar, they see Oliver in an alley, having his way with an attractive French poodle.

"Oliver, I can't believe it," says Broder. "You've never done this before."

"Hey," says the dog, "I've never had money before."