A black mongrel with bloodshot eyes slobbers noisily, panting hot gusts of fetid breath. I live inside its mouth. The floor is slimy, the walls are sticky, the stench is suffocating. The black rubbery lips pull back, the jaws snap. I burrow deep into the gums to avoid the tide of kibble, barely crunched as it's swallowed; the flood of brackish water, the occasional writhing, screaming thing. And then of course there's the traffic heading the other way, a rising wall of half-digested filth hurled from the depths of that same black cavern I spend most of my days avoiding being sucked into. And the tongue! That horrible, flopping slab of carrion which slurps the face and anus of every creature unfortunate enough to cross its path. I live for the hours when the brute sleeps, twitching and snorting with thuggish dreams but otherwise still. I savor those brief interludes when the deep bellowing roogs and woofs stop echoing through my skull. One might reasonably inquire why I remain in this foul domicile. I wonder myself sometimes as I cling for dear life to the nearest canine, waiting for the rush of meat to subside.