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 A timid little man ventured into a biker bar in the Bronx and,
 clearing his throat, asked, "Um, err, which of you gentlemen owns
 the Doberman tied outside to the parking meter?"
 
 A giant of a man wearing biker leathers with his body hair growing
 out of the seams turned slowly on his stool.  He looked down at
 the quivering little man and said, "It's my dog.  Why?"
 
 "Well," squeaked the little man, very nervous, "I believe my dog
 just killed it, sir."
 
 "What?"  roared the big man in disbelief.  "What in the hell kind
 of dog do you have?"
 
 "Sir," answered the little man, "It's a four-week-old puppy."
 
 "Bull!"  roared the biker, "How could your puppy kill my
 Doberman?"
 
 "It appears that he choked on it, sir."

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