In the depths of the English countryside, there stood an ancient coaching inn. Like many of its ilk, it was at the top of a hill, and was called "The Cock", because it was there that an extra horse (the cock horse) was stabled to be hired to any carter or stagecoach that needed extra power to get up the hill.

The landlord of this hostelry had an old dog, by name Dobbin, who had an eventful life, full of incident and accident. In one accident, he was run over by a car which severed his tail at the root.

The vet who stitched up his other wounds declined to reattach the severed tail, saying that it was not worthwhile with such an old dog. Now, in some breeds, Wiemeraners, for example, a docked tail is a desirable attribute, but for this mongrel it was something of a handicap. Now no-one, landlord or customer, could tell when he was happy.

The dog's master was about to consign the redundant appendage to the dustbin, when he had a thought. He went round to the local taxidermist and had him preserve the tail, which he then attached to the wall of the public bar on a pivot, with a length of stout cord tied to one end leading down to where Dobbin could reach it.

The old dog was then trained to pull the string when he was happy (which was most of the time, for he was a well-fed pet), and the tail wagged away on the wall.

The news of this amusing trick sped far and wide, and trade at the pub was significantly boosted by the tourists and others who travelled far and wide to witness it.

Unfortunately, the old dog's days were numbered, and it was not long after that he tried to run in front of his last car. Humiliatingly, the vehicle that ultimately cost him his life was a Reliant Robin - he forgot about the third wheel in the middle!

Well, Dobbin had been a good dog, in his mongrel way, and, as with all good dogs, his soul winged its way to canine Heaven. However, there was a snag, Canine St Peter informed him that tail-less mongrels could not be admitted through the canine pearly gates. Dobbin's shade could either return to the place where his tail was and bring it back with him to gain admission, or spend eternity in canine purgatory.

So the ghost of Dobbin returned early in the morning to the Cock, which was, needless to say, by that time firmly closed. He whined and scratched on the door to attract his former master's attention.

The landlord woke, and went to the door. He opened it and the doggy ghost rushed in an jumped against the wall where his tail was still pinned. The landlord realised at once what the problem was, but shook his head sadly.

"Dobbin", he said, "after all these years you ought to know that I can't re-tail spirits after hours!"