Dog's day out, Tanner's day on the street, I'm in a bad mood and I'm walkin'. Gettin' real tired of these drivers shinin' beams into my eyes — beaming lights, thoughts, signals into my angry dog brain, makin' me do things I don't wanna do. I've got a good sense of vitreous humor, and I see floaters on the sidewalk, and on the walls of every last school I've attended. I see 'em flash across the backs of the cars I chase, the ones I bark at until I'm hoarse. Don't blink and drive.

They say some real nasty things about me from the safety of their steering wheels, and I hear it all. They call me a malnourished mutt, they call me a punk-ass pooch. They don't call me anything I wouldn't call myself, but that don't make 'em right. You may not have heard of Tanner the dog man, but I know you. I know your stink, I'd recognize it anywhere. I know you jolt awake in the middle of the night, wipin' the crust outta your eyes and cursin' the dogs outside your window, makin' all that racket. You shake your fist and shout until you're blue in the face, but you fail to realize there's only ever one dog out there, and that's me.

I howl and I knock your trash cans over, I roll around in your garbage and I bark. I bark so you won't sleep anymore. I bark because you don't listen. I bark until the sun comes up, and then I slink home to nurse my broken voice. Home is my apartment, it's drab and dark, I don't ever bring any guests around. There's no fridge or TV, I don't know how to use those. They're even worse than the cars, full of confusing sounds and images, people trapped inside. What do they want from me? There are cars on TV that I can't chase — what's the point? So I curl up on my newspaper and dream of ruining your furniture, shitting in your car, tearing up your prized leather interior. It's what you deserve.

You don't know what it's like to stay here in the cut, up on the fourth floor of this hellhole. The fourth floor is where the drain weasels live, they sneak into my bathroom and clog the drains with hair. Human hair. YOUR hair. I've gotta get in there and yank it out, I pretend it's your entrails. Helps me cope with the stench. Then I throw chunks of it at your neighbors when they're not lookn', and write them threatening messages on their windows, I sign 'em with your name. Now they think you want to carve up their kids and stick the severed heads on your picket fence. Ruh-roh. Every dog has his day, and this one is mine. Don't drop the soap ya jackoff.