Dog’s gotta booklet. Scoop salmon from the tin onto sideplated white bread. Masticate. Gums, roof of mouth, teeth popping fish spine beads. Clench-ripple throat muscles, squeeze the paste past turnstile of tonsils. Dog’s gotta bowl. Passively smoke: the sun shines tuneless blue air. I stopped, listened, repaired the cistern. Dog’s gotta boss. The washing machine? It’s full of rust. Dog’s gotta boundary.