If the Lord is my Shepherd, I hope he doesn't punch me in the jaw.

Don't You?

This is a reaction to "Out Like a Lamb" a short story.
I actually read this before in one of my core English classes, and I didn't like it for some reason. Some reason that is completely past me because I loved it this time.
To throw "some stars out" on a five star scale I'd give it a three and a half. I like it when I read it to myself, but we read it outloud in class today and the complete change in tone, the way it was read, made me interpret it completely differently.
The fact that the author was a Catholic also altered my view of it. That changes the whole thing. (This is an appreciative shout out to my Eng300 class last spring, stories are always more enjoyable if you have a relation or common ground with whoever is behind it).
So he's a Catholic who said, "...Christ called us his flock, his sheep; there were pictures of him holding a lamb in his arms. His face was tender and loving, and I grew up with a sense of those feelings, of being a source of them: we were sweet and loveable sheep. But after a few weeks in that New Hampshire house, I saw that Christ's analogy meant something entirely different. We were stupid helpless brutes, and without constant watching we would foolishly destroy ourselves."
This sets such a good tone. He analyzes waaay too much, to the point where the bias that this creates towards sheep influences his religious belief. Also the way he paints himself up as a cowboy, a failed cowboy at that.
A cowboy who is good at what he does would not accidentally kill a sheep by shooting it in the ass.
It's such a contrast to me. Cowboy writers. Tough guys who harbor an inner poet. Not to say that this story is incredibly poetic, but the act of writing well is an art.
I'm ranting.
I'll stop.