The dog has seen, has witnessed, has witnessed, has experienced,
has done enough to get bored of it. First the smell it had. Then the sound it made.
Then that thing on four pats called table. From that thing on four pats
comes a delightfull flavour. I tell you, he is familiar with that too.
It is so goddamn familiar that he really got tired with all of it. He won't feel upset.
He's far too bored with the goddam situation to feel upset. He gets on his belly,
gets down, and as usual no one takes notice of him. He really can't take it.
It's too much that part of the game where no consideration at all, gentle or not, fingers.
Hey, you there, I'm sick of it. Look at me, I'm sick of it. Hey, you there, can't you see,
I'm sick of it. The rusted head, terribly sad, gets down on his front legs.
Don't you see I'm sick of it. And there's still that terrible smell right in front of him.
Can't you see, it's all over the place goddammit. Then he gets up, all of a sudden.
Right, that's what I do, enough is enough. Again that thing on four pats.
Mam, it gets me mad. Hey, hey, look at me. I'm not asking anything, did I.