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"You tell me there's nothing wrong with my daughter except in her mind. You tell me an exorcism wouldn't do her any good!"

Father Panda sat on the wooden stool, brows furrowed and large ears drooped. His attempts at conversing with Sam were not to have been in vain; his own obvious understanding of backwards English were beyond the juvenile makings of gathering attention. In layman's terms, this shit was real. The next step was, well, unsure.

How could he explain this to Mrs. Steele?

"Mrs. Steele, I asked your eight-year-old daughter who she was. Do you know what she told me?"

Mrs. Barbara Ann Steele, a thirty-three year old black Labrador actress from California, stared impatient at the priest, her warm, forest-green eyes able to melt through the stoniest of hearts and souls through all of her pictures. Father Panda was the exception, his steel, cold, gray eyes unaffected by the warmth, even in her anger now.

"Mrs. Steele, do you have a cigarette? My nerves are shot."

She reached into her jeans pocket with a large paw and pulled out a crisp pack of Marlboros.

"A glass of scotch to go with, Father?"

"No. Well. . . sure."

Barbara Ann crossed the parlor to the bar, lifting a small glass from the cabinet and opened a medium sized bottle of amber liquid. Filling it halfway through, she handed it to the Father.

"You too?"

"Ok."

A minute later, the two of them sat almost flank to flank, Father Panda in his priest clothes and the world-renowned Mrs. Barbara Ann Steele, each holding an equal amount of Schober Scotch and a lit Marlboro in the other paw. Upstairs, silence prevailed for the time being, as Father Panda had given Sam some medication which would allow her to sleep for at least six hours, to give her some much needed rest. That is, if the 'forces' inside of her would allow.

"A toast?" asked the actress.

"To Sam?"

"To Sam. To us. To this family. God, to this family. I cannot believe this is happening. If that goddamned husband of mine hadn't left and jumped ship just when I needed him most. . ." Mrs. Steele coughed back a sob, but the extra- large tear which she had tried to conceal failed. This did not go unnoticed by Father Panda.

"Mrs. Steele, when I asked Sam who she was, she told me Dogmorfmocion."

At the mention of the word, the bitch let loose a medium whimper, and her tender eyes reflected fear and misunderstanding in the direction of her new friend.

"What the hell does THAT mean?" she whispered in a deep, terrified voice.

Father Panda, small beads of sweat forming once again on his black furred forehead despite the air-conditioned three story apartment, reclined into the love seat and took a deep breath. God, what is happening to me? I'm so scared myself, and yet she needs to know these things.

The paw bringing the cigarette to his lips shook like a mild hurricane. Mrs. Steele, of course, noticed this and laid her left paw on his right, to attempt to calm him down, to reassure.

"I'm sorry, Father, very sorry. I keep forgetting how hard this is for you, too. Please, in your own time."

"Thank you.

"Mrs. Steele, may I step outside, please?"

"Of course, Father Panda. Would you like to be alone for a few minutes?"

A shrug of shoulders and a nervous smile was response enough. "Just a few. Leave the front door open a crack, in case, well, of anything. I'll be right outside."

Mrs. Barbara Ann Steele, her long, blond hair spilling out in loving amounts over both broad shoulders, nodded. "I...well, we'll be here." Again, she choked back a sob, and turned from the open door into the cold shadows of the Georgetown abode.

"Mrs., Mrs. Steele?"

The beautiful, yet pinched, Labrador actress turned around with an eager flourish and gazed into the oceanic, clouded souls of Father Panda's eyes.

"Yes?"

Albeit the period of dusk had begun to settle on the day, the fading sun, so golden and perfect like a new formed egg yolk, let out a small light beam on the doorway where Father Panda now stood, his head craned towards the magnificent and irreplaceable Labrador.

"Please, step outside. There is no better space or time to speak of these matters than in God's own amazing handiwork."

Barbara Ann blushed a bit, for her own agnostic views on God still hung tight. Unknown to her, Father Panda also felt the same uncertainness. What kind of "perfect" God would create this limbo-like situation, to place Sam, such an apparent funny and warm puppy, at this risk? When did the bullshit stop?

"Mrs. Steele, I told you your daughter said she was Dogmorfmocion."

Again, she cringed, her tiny, pert black ears pining back as if an invisible wind had cruised by them, forcing them to scream against her headfur.

"What does that mean?" she murmured again.

Father Panda wet his furred lips with a very dry tongue and continued. "Mrs. Steele, in basic linguistic calisthenics, to read the word forward to back makes no sense. However, when read backwards, the word reads No, I Come From God."

At the mention of the answer, the large, broad-shouldered Labrador seemed to grow even more so, her warm eyes growing with a flash of hate and anger, her lips rolled back in a snarl, wrinkles forming at her snout.

"What are you saying, Father?"

"I am not altogether sure, Mrs. Steele. I am telling you just what I heard, and what I know, as I said, to be basic linguistic calisthenics. Although, according to you, and to what I have read from Sam's school papers, she is very bright, I have to believe there is something more going on here. In other words, I have to believe that at least another intervention by myself would not hurt."

"But an exorcism, at this point. . .?" she said with a numb accent, as her thick and heavy paws came to rest on the Father's shoulders. This time, it was his turn to blush some.

His eyes met hers. The sun hid behind a large gray cloud, giving the illusion of leaving the two, scared adults in shadow.

"Mrs. Steele, when will Sandra be home?"

Barbara Ann turned her eyes away from his to a small gas stain on her left on the driveway. "I suppose in fifteen minutes. She had to run to the hospital to gather some prescriptions. I don't. . .I don't know what else. . ." Then she burst out in heaving, gasping sobs, allowing her salted tears to flow over Father Panda's clerical fabrics. Her large body buckled, pushing Father back against the brick wall. "Oh, Father! I just want to die! Please, Father, help my little girl, please!. . ." pleaded Mrs. Steele, her shaking body forcing the priest to grasp onto her tight, to prevent her from spilling hard on the pavement.

"Mrs. Steele."

As a Catholic priest, the celibate rules were considered absolute. However, since he had met the famed Mrs. Barbara Ann Steele, his own steel heart had begun to unlock. No matter the multitude of years he had provided no access to the release of painful feelings from a bastard God that he still, without fail, managed to worship every day during Mass, he had somehow known that the day would come when surrender would become inevitable. It was apparent that moment had come.

"Mrs. Steele, look at me, please."

The actress looked up at the priest, wide tears rumbling out the corners of her oval eyes, her entire body shaking hard.

"What? WHAT?"

He looked down and to his right, where a small, pink flower, a symbol of God's grace amongst the consuming madness, seemed out of place, yet perfect at the same time.

"I have two requests for you."

Mrs. Steele remained crumpled in Father Panda's arms, but her ears perked, as his voice conveyed a sense of newfound strength, courage, the promise that the game was not over. Not by a long shot.

"One, have faith. Greater things will we do in the world than he hath done."

Her head cocked to the left, eyes perked a bit, a bit of a smile playing around her mouth.

"And?"

"This may sound rather unlike a priest in most situations, but, would you have dinner with me tomorrow? We could talk then, and you could get away from this for a while. Would do you good, I suppose. Would do us good."

A soft giggle escaped the maw of Mrs. Barbara Ann Steele, surprised at the panda's request. The candidness of it was what outdid her, and so how could she refuse?

"Of course, Father. Where would you want to go?"

"Well, it is common knowledge that most priests are poor. Poor is an understatement, for sure. However, I have been saving for a day with great rain, and the occasion now seems to fit. How about Chez Italiano?"

"Why, Father Panda, if I did not know any better, I think that you were asking me out on a date, you subtle angel. Or. . .devil?"

"Just a lonesome priest, Mrs. Steele, with enough courage to break away from some boring tenets."

Her tears had ceased to flow hard, and were now trickling at a slow, soft rate. The mild smile had now become full with gleaming white teeth and her forest-green eyes shone with some kind of love and kindness, glowing more against the gray gumdrop background of the shadow around them.

"Sandra will be here tomorrow. So will Kyle and Bertha, my butler and maid. They can take care of things for an hour or two. They've been pressing me to get out of here. They will be most surprised at who I will be pressing with."

This time, both adults giggled.

"Barbara Ann, I have to go now. Mass in an hour. You have the number to the rectory, and to the apartment. Sam. . .Sam should sleep well into the night."

"Sam. We've been talking all about ourselves. What about Sam?"

Father Panda stepped forward twice, closing the distance between him and her, and reached his left paw towards her right, grasping it firm yet with blessed assurance. "Mrs. Steele, I offer you one other request. This is something you have to learn to do for yourself. I had to learn to do it for myself many years ago, and I am still not a master of it, but it can be done with some progression. "

"And what is that, Father?"

"Let go. This situation is out of our paws and is now in something greater and more beautiful than ourselves. Now, will you go inside and have a drink and rest? Please?"

"Yes, Father. Thank you.

"Father?"

"Yes."

With a quick flourish, Barbara Ann Steele reached down and left a small kiss on Father Panda's left cheek. What remained there was a sparse amount of peach lipstick and Pink Calfoun scent.

"Mrs. Steele!"

"That's for everything so far. I'd go mad if it wasn't for you. Now, go. And, here. . .have a cigarette." She opened the Marlboro box and placed the filter end in his maw. With a sweep, she lit the other end. "Better than rope, right?"

Father Panda agreed.

"Better than rope."

Again, they both giggled; this time, the father's short tail wagged.

"Have a good evening, Father."

"You too, Mrs. Steele. Good night."

As she headed back inside her apartment, inside the prison cell into which some unknown black spell had fallen upon her beautiful puppy, she continued to watch the somewhat plump, yet muscular priest use his short legs covered by black cloth to turn the left corner after the gate, a small plume of Marlboro smoke hanging above the edge of bricks which encased the part of the apartment where the parlor laid, where they had been which seemed minutes ago.

"Good night, Father," she whispered, walking back into her home, closing and locking the large white door, and turned on the large chandelier light in the lobby hall, leaving behind the gray clouds which threatened to rain later that evening.

Smiling, she went to the parlor and went for the scotch, lighting a cigarette.