Confessional

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession, and these are my sins: I wanted to kill…to kill, uhm…to kill…"

"Yes, you can say it."

"A poodle."

"Oh."

"An old lady's poodle. Actually it's more of Shih Tzu-Pomeranian crossbreed."

"How many times did this…desire happen?"

"I lost count."

"Okay, well, anyway, that's not really a sin. In fact, you might say it's a kind of virtue."

"Really? I mean, the thoughts are pretty bad."

"What are the circumstances."

"Well, you see Father, I work at this old folks home and there's this little dog. Every time I walk by the fence the dog runs up and down the length barking and yapping at me; and when I get past the end of the fence and proceed to the further gate out of the property that little dog changes the velocity of his barking into staccato bursts of triumph, and you can just tell, you can just tell, somewhere in that dog's little pea brain, he thinks that his barking has driven me away. ARGHH!!!"

"I see."

"And it's just, it's just…"

"You just want to punt that furry little son of a bitch like a football."

"Yes, Father, exactly!"

"You want to see that little fur ball flung barking off a sea cliff."

"Err, uh…"

"You want to see that scruffy mutt tied to a pole and used for a game of tether-ball."

"Well, Father, actually I did think about taking the snow-blower to dog's face once at full blast."

"Hmmm, that's an interesting one. I'll have to try that next time."

"What's that Father?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing! For your penance say one Our Father in honour of St. Francis of Assisi. Now say the Act of Contrition."