I guess you’re old enough now for me to tell you about The Venerable Borf.
Just beyond the outskirts of town where the path forks toward the dale there’s an old stand of trees in a misty thicket. If one muscled enough gumption to high step their Johnny Boots through the crick brambles and discarded Big Hunk wrappers, they’d eventually stumble into a clearing and be met with the forgotten monument of Borf himself, or, The Venerable Borf as he was known in his time.
Tale has it that one hazy autumn morning a stray dog was digging through the garbage next to the haberdasher that had burned down two riots ago and nosed his way into an old pointed hat. “Oi that fuckin' mutt’s a *burp* wiz’rd!” chortled a fat wino propped up on his forearm stump in the neighboring gutter. With that snap drunken assumption, Borf's fame burst throughout the town. He was tapped to officiate weddings, funerals, demonic incantations, and a surprising number of disputes over wig ownership. Of course, being a dog, The Venerable Borf was oblivious to his status, and was simply content with the wealth of sheep necks he was tossed as payment for his services.
As all powers fade, Borf's era of influence came to an end when he wandered out of town, seduced by the siren smells of a sausage seller, never to be seen again. His mysterious departure was mourned, this statue was erected, and the people eventually found a new distraction. If I was a betting man, I'd wager that the folk in this remote village were simply bored. That, and stupid.