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"Ah,'" winced Tom as he sucked two freshly barked knuckles. "Martha, I'm not going to fix this outboard one more time. It's time for a new one."
"Tom, I know it's old but we can't spare the cash right now to buy another. Come in and let me fix that hand."
"Don't worry, I'll handle it," said Tom with a twinkle in his eye while Martha bandaged.
"Now Tom, I'd like to think that after sixty-five years you've mellowed out a bit."
Tom just grinned ear to ear and spoke to the dog who's ear he had been scratching. "Come on Peewee," he said, lifting his slim wiry frame from the chair. "We're going for a ride. Quit whining, I said you could eat the hot dog, now eat it."
Peewee, a grizzled tan, barrel-chested, all-American dog weighs in at about 140 lbs without the hot dog he begs from a local quick stop. Opening the passenger door of the pick-up Tom grunted, "Get in."
Smoking his hot dog like a Havana cigar Peewee jumped in and continued to softly whine. The starter turned at ten rpm and slowly ground to a near halt. The engine as usual caught at the last moment and a noxious black cloud belched from the exhaust while the engine settled into a gentle purr.
A few minutes later Tom pulled into the parking lot of the Third National Bank.
"Peewee, stop whining and eat the hot dog. If you're concerned about a shooting, don't worry there won't be any. We're going to see a man about a loan."
Tom, a bit of oil on his shorts, strode up to the receptionist, Peewee in tow.
"I'd like to see a loan officer," he smiled generously.
Miss Jones wrinkled her nose, stood up and took a step backwards. "You want a loan," she quavered.
"Listen Miss Jones, do you get paid to talk down your nose to people or do they pay you to show people to the loan officer?"
"Please sit down; I'll call Mr. Murdock."
"Thank you, I'll stand. In case you haven't noticed, I've got a bit of oil on my shorts."
A man appeared shortly with a quizzical expression. "John Murdock, can I help you?"
"I'd guess so. I'm here to talk about a loan."
"Come into my office."
"Please be seated," said the loan officer smiling obsequiously while he dropped into a high-backed chair behind a walnut desk.
"In case you haven't noticed I'm a working man. I'd better not dirty up your chair."
"It's okay," said Murdock, staring incredulously at Peewee who was still smoking his Havana hot dog and whining softly. The phone rang and Murdock picked up. He swiveled his chair, the high back shielding him from Tom while he talked. After about fifteen minutes Tom motioned to Peewee and they both left.
Outside the bank Tom dropped a quarter into a pay phone and dialed a number.
"Murdock here, how can I help you?"
"I'd like to talk to you about a loan."
"Well why don't you come on down and see me?"
"Well," Tom drawled, "I tried that and you only seemed to be interested in talking to people on the phone about loans. I left so I could call you and talk."
"Wait a minute. Are you the fellow who was in here a minute ago with a dog?"
"More like a half-hour ago."
"Get in here!"
"Can we talk then?"
"Just get in here!"
"Come on Peewee, I think we've got his ear," Tom said, scratching the dog's ear.
Epilog: Tom got his loan and Peewee buried the hot dog.
People from other countries may be confused by the title. It is a play on words from a cowboy song entitled "Get along little doggie". Cowboys call their cattle, 'doggies'
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