I am a boxer dog of championship lineage dating back to the late nineteenth century, when the breed was brought to a high point of development in Germany. I have a short, clean brindle coat involving a pattern of black stripes over a base coat of golden fawn. At one-hundred and eighty pounds, I am considered large. My muzzle is broad and gracefully carried, giving balance and symmetry to my head. In repose or when I am deep in thought my face is the very picture of dignified nobility.

My under jaw is somewhat longer than the upper jaw and is turned up at the end, as it should be. The jaw projects just enough to afford a maximum of grasping power and holding power (but without the exaggeration and underbite you sometimes see in poorly bred or inbred boxers). Once my jaws are clamped on something it cannot escape.

My entire muzzle is black. My nose is completely black, the nostrils wide and flaring. My eyes are of a deep blue and set deeply in the skull. I do not have that liquid soft expression you see in spaniels, but rather assertive eyes that can create a menacing and baleful effect when I am irritable. This is particularly the case when I fix my piercing stare on its target. I can burn a hole through steel and escape this Mickey Mouse joint anytime I want, and I will as soon as I get my rest. Arf!

Before the greenhouse effect I was a circus performer with the simple-minded animal consciousness of the here-and-now. That I had been a great hero of the circus-the dog shot from cannons, the dog that dove from fifty-foot platforms into shallow barrels of water, the dog that rode galloping stallions bareback-that I was Bugly, the Great One, a celebrated hero of Mother Underdog, beloved by my countrymen means…a lot to me.