ogs. Dogs indeed.
German tourists in Indiana don’t understand the semiotics. They think the reason there is a greyhound on the side of the buses is because the people who ride them are the dogs of America. Quoth Montfort: “I don’t ride buses.” Dogs.
Yeah. Like Scott and William riding to Dallas-Fort Worth. Like William coming home from Providence, or Florida, or Chicago. Dogs. Like the Unknown, dogs of literature, riding buses down the hypertext highway.
And that’s not the kind of dogs that get groomed in Frisco. At dog grooming salons that cater to a largely male homosexual clientele, like Glamour Bitch in the Haight. In this case, they hardly qualify as dogs: your Fifis, your Pierres, your Jacques. Pomeranians, Chihuahuas, miniatures. Long-haired breeds that more resemble rodents than they do dogs. Tiny creatures that would never lunge against razor wire fences, baying ferociously at passersby like great junkyard dogs. They are not Doberman Pinschers, Great Danes, or pit bulls. These are no watchdogs. These are only dogs a burglar might step on in the dark, causing them to emit a shrill yelp an octave above a cat’s meow.
The Unknown drink tapwater out of plastic, they eat hot dogs, and drink beer out of cans. They sleep on sofas and floors, and walk around outdoors for long periods of time. They are normally not allowed in restaurants such as the Cafe Loup in Midtown. They are not of distinguished breeding, nor are they ever taken to exquisite salons.
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