Arafat and his driver are driving along in Gaza. Suddenly a dog runs
out on the street and they run it over. Arafat feels terrible and
tells his driver, “go find the owners and tell them of my sorrow and
apologize for me.”
The driver goes off to deliver the bad news, and Arafat waits in the car. Twenty
minutes, thirty minutes an hour and the driver still has not returned. That’s it.
Arafat goes off to find him. When he does, he finds him sitting in a family room,
surrounded by dancing children, music playing, a cigar in his mouth and a glass of
champagne in his hand.
“What’s going on?” Arafat demands.
“I’m not certain,” the driver replies. “All I said was, ‘I am Arafat’s driver. The
dog is dead.'”