I found a dog in my sink. He was kind of cute. Not too big, but not small enough to kick very far. The doorbell rang and a man with a bag of poop was standing on my doorway.
“Do you have my dog? He’s not too big, but not small enough to kick very far.” The man looked dismayed, but it’s hard to feel sympathy for someone holding a bag of poop.
“As a matter of fact, there is a dog in my sink matching that description. I’ve grown rather fond of him, to tell the truth. He smiled when I asked if his name was Rover. I think he’s in on the joke.”
The man offered to trade me the bag of poop for the dog. I realized that if I kept the dog, I’d have plenty of bags of poop. I don’t really want bags of poop so I gave him the dog and let him keep his bag of poop. I forgot to ask the dog how he got into the sink. Maybe he had magic powers and I should have kept him. I don’t think his name was Rover.
Scapegoats and Sacred Cows 