APRIL 34, 2007: 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 seventy-five pounds, I am considered large for a female. 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.

APRIL 40: 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 brown and are 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 jail anytime I want, and I will as soon as I get my rest. Arf!

APRIL 55: Before my accident 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 Boris, the Great One, a celebrated hero of Mother Russia, beloved by my countrymen meant…nothing to me.

Eagle has me back in his little office, and he confronts me not only with my fake diary but with my real one as well. I’m pissed that they’ve been rummaging through my personal gear.

“Let me get this straight. You say you were this circus dog in Russia, and you got a brain injury when you were shot from a cannon?”

“I forgot to wear my safety helmet.”

“So a famous neurosurgeon put your brains back together and sent you to a health spa—”

“Only the V.I.P.s went there. Nikita K. was there. I knew him. Dancers from the Bolshoi. Army generals. K.G.B. officials. Chess champions.”

“And you…a dog?”

“I wasn’t just a dog. I was the Rin Tin Tin of Russia.”

“You’re pretty bright and well informed. How can you know all this kind of thing?”

“Because it’s true,” I said.

“How would you like it if I sent you to the brig?”