From the pulpit: I have a bone to pick about this dog's life; Martin

SOMETHING must be done. We can put up with it no longer. We have been the silent victims for many years. And this month I announce the formation of an organisation to give us a voice.

I put myself forward, reluctantly and purely for the sake of serving my fellow victims, as your leader. No other organisation has yet adequately addressed the problems.

The organisation is BARK - Belfast Against Roaming Kanines.

The problem is this - dog dirt. In my garden. And I don't have a dog!

Other people's dogs are allowed to roam. Doing their business on my grass. Big dollops of you-know-what. They sneak in during the evening, let out by their owners. I see them hunched, preparing to fire their lethal volleys.

There are two dogs in particular. We will call one McRover - his name is changed to protect his identity. McRover is a labrador. Slow, arthritic, doleful-eyed. Carrying the cares of the world.

Old dog. No longer top dog. Pondering the future of his pups. He doggedly danders in on his usual route. He's been doing it for years. Considers it his right. Stubbornly resists.

The other, O'Fido, is younger, smaller and nimble. A terrier running rings around the rest. A mixture of snap and subtlety. Always on the move.

He runs in, looks around, establishing his rights over my garden, does what he needs to do and runs back out. I did once challenge his owner, who was civil, but disclaimed responsibility.

It makes me livid. They should take away the licenses of foul dogs. Have a dog amnesty. Hand in all unlicenced dogs.

I feel like catching a dog and rubbing its nose in the stuff to teach it a lesson. My worst nature would take a shovel of the offending material, follow the dog home and leave it on the doorstep.

Or knock on the door and present it to the dog's owner. Or post it through the letter box. I would feel great.

As I was dreaming about this, it turned into a nightmare. I imagined the owner taking exception. He hits me. Or reports me to the police.

I am questioned. The local newspaper reports the ugly incident between a Salvation Army minister and his neighbours whom they interview.

I am summoned to court. The national newspapers get wind of it. The Sunday You-Know-What dishes the dirt. The report is about "hating thy neighbour's dog" and there's a picture of me.

Animal lovers send threatening letters. Reporters camp outside my door. My employers move me out of Belfast to save their reputation. I am sent to England for my own safety...living out the rest of my life in regret.

No. I must search for a different way. I must recognise my actions themselves have consequences. The original offence was not mine.

But that does not excuse my response. Maybe I should start by getting to know my neighbours. I could even try being pleasant.

The Bible says, 'Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven.'

But what does that mean in real life? How does it help me with McRover, O'Fido and their owners?

I think of this prayer to help me through awkward times:

Loving, heavenly Father, sometimes I express myself in the wrong ways, acting out my frustrations without thinking, expressing my hurt by hurting, my grief by wounding, my anger by revenge, without considering the consequences for myself and others.

Help me, against my less worthy instincts, seeking to understand those whom I would condemn, seeking to befriend those I would avoid, seeking to warm to those I would cold shoulder and seeking to be gracious to those I would dismiss.

Give me generous helpings of humility and respect in my disagreements with others.

Change not only my actions, but my attitude and do it today.

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