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