I was talking with my dogs about this Michael Vick thing.

They were candid enough to admit it has them puzzled.

“Let me get this clear,” our retriever said. “This guy admitted being the kingpin of the ‘Bad Newz Kennels’ national dogfighting enterprise for five or six years, tested positive for drugs while on bail pending sentencing on federal and state charges and even filed bankruptcy despite being paid more than $25 million as a professional athlete?”

“That’s right,” I said.

“But after a couple of months in prison and a tell-all apology on ‘60 Minutes’ everything’s OK for him to return to stardom and million-dollar paychecks from the Philadelphia Eagles?” the dog wanted to know.

“Well, yes,” I said, before launching into a soliloquy on the American system of justice. “The criminal code,” I said, “is a compact among people, written by their duly elected representatives, that defines certain acts, behaviors and even omissions, such as failure to stop at a red light, as destructive enough to the common good to require a public response, trial and, if guilty, punishment in the form of a fine, imprisonment or both.”

The retriever tried to interrupt with a comment that as a puppy he got no trial — just a whack with a rolled up newspaper — for accidents on the carpet, but I pressed on.

“The thinking is that once the punishment provided for in law has been meted out, the slate is wiped clean,” I said. “Vick did his time and has satisfied all the continuing terms and conditions of his release — so his score is settled. Second chance, fresh start, all that…”

It was about time for the dalmatian to pipe up, and she did.

“If the law says that,” she said, “the law is an ass.” (The dalmatian is the smarter of our dogs and, in addition to Dickens, often quotes Yeats and Shakespeare.)

I tried to explain that the law doesn’t specifically say all must be forgiven, that it’s more of a societal convention.

Then they both started in on me.

“Let’s say you got a guy who’s been divorced three times, stays drunk and can’t keep a job,” the retriever said. “He hasn’t broken a single law, but by ‘societal convention’ no one wants him dating their daughter.”

“Yet,” the dalmatian said, “here’s a guy who managed the bringing of innocent little puppies into the world only for the purpose of torturing them into becoming ravenous, mindless killers, who unmercifully killed those who refused to fight and who profited financially from fostering this misery, yet now that he’s ‘sorry’ about it all is forgotten. Your children — people children — are supposed to sit in front of their TVs on Sunday afternoons and cheer for him because he was also born with the ability to throw a football a quarter-mile?”

If you’ve read this far, thank you. As your reward I’ll spare you from the tirade I had to hear about how dogs are snuffed for one errant bite or delivered to the Humane Society for such offenses as being “too frisky,” yet an admitted dog-torturer and dog-killer who derived pleasure from the pain of animals can be deemed “rehabilitated.”

“All I can say,” the retriever concluded, “is y’all better not ever give dogs the right to vote, especially the dogs in Philadelphia.”

“Yeah,” the dalmatian said. “We dogs know some things. For instance, “No man for any considerable period can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.” (Hawthorne).

Told you the dalmatian was smarter.