Gordo, Master Raconteur, called
by the Market stall this AM for a
yarn. Said his Labrador had weird
ideas on what being a dog means.
Amongst other things it knew its
beer he claims – it, the Lab’s long
dead (and not from what you’re
thinking), liked to drink a bit.
Back when we weren’t supplied
too easily with life’s necessities
a NSW brewery strike meant we
suffered an unseasonal dry.
The beer didn’t arrive, one had
to drink this puerile p.ss called
‘West End’ in place of KB. Only
slightly better than nothing.
No-one noticed but the Labrador
cottoned on this stuff was dodgy.
Later, when a few cartons of the
genuine showed, rationed like a
grandma’s smile & the lads get into
a tinny or two – dog arrives, bowl in
mouth, ready for a cleansing brew.
Bugger off, the lads say, when Gordo
goes to pour a drop, give ‘im a West
End, there’s still a few. They say the
look on the Lab’s face would’ve soured
cream. Gordo recalls that he (the dog)
never drank beer again...!
© 4 November 2007, I. D. Carswell
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