How much wood...
Canada, a fair few years back. I've got family over there, so I save up my pennies and head over to see them after I leave school.
Now, these relatives live in the suburbs of a quiet little town which , in England, would count as the arse-end of the middle of nowhere. Course, out there it's positively buzzing compared to some places you can get hold of.

Anyway, 18 years old and thirsty for a pint, I wander away from my adult supervision for a night to see what the town has to offer. Spying a tavern, of sorts, I pop in and stride up to bar.
"Beer, please, mi'duck." says the East Midland's blood coarsing through my veins.
"Sorry, have you got any I.D?"
"That I 'ave." says me, holding my passport for all and sundry to gawp at. My newly found legalism proudly emblazoned onto it's pages, I felt sure of a pint.
"Sorry, but I can't serve you." Comes the reply.

My brain, jet lagged and beer thirsty, came up with hundreds of possible excuses, arguments, and even misunderstandings that could have led to that answer.
Unfortunately, the only one to reach my lips was a, more aggressive than planned, "You wot?"

Cue silence from the bar's inhabitants. Accusing stares, mutterings of "He's a Brit", I knew what was coming next.
Hands in my pockets, shoulders slumped, I turn and head for the door when an ominous growl starts from my right.
"Uh-oh, you didn't upset so-and-so did you, son?" Booms from the same direction as the growl.

I didn't have to turn to know the guy was big, but when I did I had to double take.
Knuckles to the floor, hands like coal shovels, this was the original man with no neck.
Intimidating as that was, the source of the growl was now in view.
Dog? Nah, this thing had no dog anywhere near it. This was the biggest, purest wolf I had ever laid eyes on.

I start to stammer something resembling "No trouble, chief.", the only thought in my head being that even if I could outrun him, the wolf would have me before I made the door.
The man mountain rumbles "Better come sit by me, and say your sorry, else Bet's here'll have you screaming it for all to hear".

I do as I'm told, sit down where I'm told, look the barmaid in the eyes and, in the quietest voice I've ever managed, said how dreadfully sorry I was.

The rumbling next to me starts up again. "Wasn't talking about her, talking about Bets".

Eyes wider than saucers, mouth drier than Ghandi's flip flops, I turn to see one giant hand pointing at she-wolf, and the other passing me what I can only describe as a fist sized hunk of cured meat.

Between finger and thumb, I drop my hand closer to the snarling the thing of nightmares.
Gentle as a mouse, she takes it from my trembling hand.

Instantly, the growling stops and a cheer resounds around the room. Suddenly, beer appeared despite the 21 year minimum.

Turns out, I was the only stranger ever that didn't do a runner as soon as the wolf started growling, and therefore was owed a beer from anyone who'd witnessed it.
And that, in a drawn out nutshell, is how I met my good friend Peter, the Lumberjack. A man who thinks the world of anyone stupid enough to put their hand anywhere near his pet's mouth, let alone while they're holding her food!
( Pointy Head poked another hole in my anorak on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 5:48, Reply)