I took that dog and I put a rope round his neck and tied him to a tree so’s he couldn’t get away, until about late that afternoon he commenced to howl and stir up such a ruckus that I put a couple crabapples in a sock and commenced to beat him with it. That shut ‘im up for awhile, but then after I went back inside and finished eatin my fishsticks, it occurs to me that he ain’t had no food or water since Thursday. I go bak out and try to feed ‘im the crabapples, but he’s still unconscious, and even when I bust one of them smellin’ salts under his head and wake ‘im up, he don’t want no crabapples. So I hike on down to old Mr. Matzko’s house and axe ‘im if I can borrow a can of dog food or somethin, and he tell me he ain’t got no dogfood on account of some wild board kilt his dog about a month ago. That musta been what the smell was comin from under his porch and all. Old Mr. Matzko give me a can of anchovies and I hoof it back home, where the dog is sittin there under the tree with his tongue hangin out. I open up the can of anchovies, but he don’t want nothin to do with them, either, so’s I eat one or two to show him they ain’t all fulla poison or nothin like that. Well the dog just looks at me like he don’t know what to make of watchin some guy eat anchovies, so’s I start shovin ’em into his mouth and all, and wouldn’t ya know it but the sonuvabitch bit me. I got mad then, and went and called the state game warden, who says I aughtn’t to call him concerning my pets, only wild animals. So I tell him I found the dog when it was a stray and don’t that make it wild? He says no and I should call the pound and stop axin’ him stupid questions. So I call the pound and the guy at the pound drives out in his dogwagon and loads the dog into the back of it, and then hands me a bill. I axe him what the hell I gotta pay for, on account of they’re just gonna up and sell the dog to somebody else, and he says he don’t make the rules, so stop breakin his balls about it. So I go get a empty peanut butter jar and fill it up with quarters and he says he can’t take money with peanut butter all over it, so’s I conked him in the head with the jar and down he goes into the mud, knocked out. Next thing I know I’m sittin there watchin TV and eatin the last of the anchovies, and here come the cops and they wanna know why the hell I conked the dogcatcher in the head with a jar fulla quarters. I say I don’t know, and they drag me on off to jail in the back of the paddywagon. But as it turns out, they load me into the back of the dogcatcher van by mistake, and the dog still don’t like me very much, and he’s even more mad on account of he’s been locked in the back of the dogcatcher van for about six hours. He starts bitin’ me all over the place, and by the time the police get me back out, I got chunks of meat ripped outta my ass and one of my fingers is gone. They take me to the hospital and the doctor wants to know what happened, and as I’m tellin him he gets this peculiar look on his face and he walks off and comes back with another doctor. The other doctor asks me what happened and I start tellin him, and next thing I know they’re takin’ me to the psych ward and showin’ me pictures of shit askin’ me what I think it is. I tell ’em I’m tired, and can I go home yet, and they say, Son, you’s either goin’ to jail or to the state hospital, dependin’ on our findings here, and I ask which one’s got better food and lets you watch TV and all and the doctor says probably the state hospital, so right then and there I start makin’ up weird shit whenever they axe me any questions, like for example I tell the guy I use the sink when I take a dump on account of I have four or five goldfish that live in my commode, and that I when I get lonely I dig up graves at the pet cemetery down the street. He looks at me real strange and next thing I know I’m on the bus to the state hospital. I get there and everyone is real nice and the food is good and they let me watch TV, but I keep on wonderin’, whatever happened to the dog?