Road to hell paved in unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault.

There was nothing wrong with it. But there wasn’t everything right with it.

Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!

I wish we all would get up and go into the labs and take the animals out or burn them down.

"I'm sorry. I was just running them. Running the dogs." I swallowed more soup and looked at the sky. The cold air was so clear the stars seemed to be falling to the ground. Like you could walk right. . . over . . . there and pick them up just lying on the snow. "I couldn't come back."

Every dog on the face of the earth wants me dead.

All right. Have it your own way. Road to hell paved with unbought stuffed dogs. Not my fault.

I wished they were all dead and I was walking on their bodies.

All these people who pretended they had come to grieve with Meka were just dogs.

Get rid of sad dogs who spread gloom.

Need was a warehouse that could accommodate a considerable amount of cruelty.

If I were the earth it would disgust me, all this vermin on my back, I’d shake it off.

I was mad, because I was thinking of the women and the little children running down there, all scared and out of breath. These Wasichus wanted it, and they came to get it, and we gave it to them.

There are talking dogs all over the place, unbelievably boring they are, on and on and on about sex and shit and smells, and smells and shit and sex, and do you love me, do you love me, do you love me.