It was supposed to be simple.
A hand puppet. A few barks. A quick laugh before the scene moved on.
That was the plan—at least on paper.
When Tim Conway walked onto the stage wearing a floppy-eared dog puppet on his hand, no one expected trouble. The script called for the dog to bark like an alarm. That was it. A harmless bit. But the moment Tim raised his arm, something shifted. The puppet didn’t behave like a prop. It hesitated. Looked around. Then, as if possessed by a mischievous soul of its own, it turned on its master.
The first “bite” caught Tim by surprise—and that surprise was real. He began arguing with his own hand, scolding it, pleading with it, then physically wrestling it like a man losing control of his body. The dog lunged at his nose. Then his ear. Tim collapsed to the floor, flailing, shouting, rolling, as if trapped inside a slapstick nightmare he could no longer stop.
Across the stage stood Harvey Korman, dressed as a police officer. He was supposed to stay in character. He tried. He really tried. But the longer the puppet attacked, the harder it became. Harvey froze. His eyes widened. His lips pressed together in a losing battle against laughter. Finally, he turned his back to the audience—his shoulders shaking uncontrollably. He was done. Completely powerless.
What made the moment legendary wasn’t just the chaos. It was the silence between the laughs. No clever dialogue. No punchlines. Just pure physical comedy unfolding in real time. Even the orchestra hesitated, unsure whether to step in. The audience wasn’t just laughing—they were witnessing something unrepeatable.
And then came the final blow.
The puppet stopped attacking Tim. Slowly turned its head. Locked eyes with Harvey. And did something so unexpected that the room exploded.
No rehearsal could have planned it. No script could have captured it. That was the magic. The scene ended not because it was finished—but because there was nowhere left to go.
Decades later, people still replay that moment. Not to analyze the joke. Not to study the craft. But to watch two grown men lose control in the most honest way possible—and to remember a time when comedy didn’t need words to be unforgettable.