Here's the joke. What's the definition of a dyslexic, agnostic insomniac?

Answer: Someone who lies awake at night wondering if there's a dog.

I'm a Catholic. I go to a Catholic school. My grandmother burns candles for saints. Personally, I just like to burn things.

Father Donleavy says that Christ is in every person. Mum says God is in all the atoms around us. My friend Gemma says she thinks it's the bag lady on the corner of Cuba and Dixon. I've been thinking about this, and I've come to the conclusion that if there is a God, it's a dog.

Think about it. Dogs love everything - you wanna go for a walk - they always want to come too. You want a cuddle - they're there for you. If you treat them bad, they just try harder. They love you no matter what. You can be mean, and no-one would know. You can yell at a dog, kick it, hit it for no reason except to take out your bad temper. You don't have to feed it if you can't be bothered going out to buy dog food. The dog won't tell. And it'll still love you. It'll still come and lie at your feet and look at you lovingly with those big eyes. It'll forgive you anything, and in doing so, (yes, here it comes...) reflect you right back at yourself. Through a dog, you know who you are - the potential for good, the temptation for bad.

So I reckon God is one of those old ugly dogs at the SPCA. One that's been kicked and starved and humiliated and thrown on the heap. And if there are any saints in the modern world, they're the people who look after that dog and give him a pat now and then, and care for him and keep him alive.

But no-one wants to take him home.