Yes. I’m a dog. And you’re reading a book written by a dog. Which of us is the odder? I guess we’ll just have to get used to it. Now, this is supposed to be Wallace’s story. And maybe, at some point, he’ll finish building the machine he was going to write this book with. Currently he’s stood on top of the dining table and wondering why he fitted a typewriter with wheels and a flame-thrower (we made an agreement for new inventions – there’s even a list on the fridge, and 'No Flame-Throwers' is at Number 3). Until then, this is my story. The tale of what goes on behind my eyes. And I really do know where all the bones are buried. So. I guess it’s time I spoke.