The dog trots freely in the street and sees reality, and the things he sees are bigger than himself, and the things he sees are his reality. Drunks in doorways, moons on trees. The dog trots freely through the street and the things he sees are smaller than himself. Fish on newsprint, ants in holes, chickens in Chinatown windows, their heads a block away. The dog trots freely in the street and the things he smells, smells something like himself. The dog trots freely in the street past puddles and babies, cats and cigars, pool rooms and policemen. He doesn't hate cops, he merely has no use for them, and he goes past them, past the dead cows hung up whole in front of the San Francisco meat market. He would rather eat a tender cow than a tough policeman, though either might do. He goes past the Romeo Ravioli factory, past Cotts Tower, past Congressman Doyle. He's afraid of Cotts Tower, but he's not afraid of Congressman Doyle, although what he hears is very discouraging, very depressing, very absurd to a sad young dog like himself, to a serious dog like himself, but he has his own free world to live in, his own fleas to eat. He will not be muzzled. Congressman Doyle is just another fire hydrant to him. The dog trots freely in the street and has his own dog's life to live and to think about and to reflect upon, touching and tasting and testing everything, investigating everything without benefit of perjury, a real realist with a real tale to tell and a real tale to tell it with. A real live barking democratic dog engaged in real free enterprise with something to say about ontology, something to say about reality and how to see it and how to hear it. With his head cocked sideways at street corners as if he is just about to have his picture taken for Victor Records, listening for his master's voice and looking like a living question mark into the great gramophone of puzzling existence with its wondrous hollow horn, which always seems just about to spout forth some victorious answer to everything. Thank you.