This story will probably never be read, due to it being filed under the letter W and being buried under a mountain of depressingly similar documents in the Howlifreynian Archive.

Other than an occasional bored glance by a dispassionate Modarchivist or two every millenia or so, this account will likely fade into obscurity, leaving a life forgotten and my despair complete.

Upon the highly unlikely event of you not being a lifeless uncaring sod, I would beg you to listen to my final plea:

SEND HELP.

I have been imprisoned in The Kennel.

They used to call it `The Matrix', but then people kept getting confused, making jokes about Agent Smith and Kung Fu.

The Kennel isn't anything that cool. It's basically just a prison for your consciousness, pure and simple.

Unlike that interesting movie, there's no grand illusion to fool you into expending energy, no food, no ladies in red dresses. The Kennel is only a filing system for the consciousness of criminals, or, in my case, the wrongly accused.

Me.

Doctor Woof.

A criminal.

The Universe's Best Friend.

Two time winner of the Best Perm Worn by a Space Traveler award.

And I get locked in here.

In the Kennel, everything that makes you `you' is put on a paper thin document slide and placed in a flat drawer like layouts on some abandoned advertising account. "Have you driven a Doctor Woof lately."

There's nothing particularly fun to do in here besides floating around amid a crisscrossed spider's web of energy beams.

Yeah, I guess with this package of jerky and honey barbecue basted dog biscuits I could be okay in here for a few days, but eventually my body will wear out and starve to death and I'll be trapped in here forever.

By now, the enemy has more than likely possessed the bodies of all ten Alpha Time Dogs on the Howlifreynian Council, while the others rest easy in their high rise skyscraper bones, gnawing on luxury treats and (slurp) yummy turkey legs, unaware of the great evil going on right beneath their muzzles.

I must get to the TARBONE, my spaceship. I must stop this evil before it's too late!

There's only one way out of here.

I need you to clear your mind of everything, and think of a door.

A doggy door. One large enough for me to squeeze through.

A small door with a rubberized flap on it, with enough room for my tail, my hat, and my long colorful scarf.

Grab anyone you can, a friend, a stranger sitting next to you, and tell them to focus on thinking about a door as well.

And notify everyone on the Howlifreynian High Council that they're all in grave danger.

Oh, if only someone other than the lazy useless Modarchivists could find this!

If you are already thinking of a dog door, I need you to make it connect to the outside world.

The simple entry of a code in the box at the end of this document could help immensely.

Just type in 06834500714, your pet's birthday, or any old number you've randomly discovered on the bottom of your cereal box at breakfast, and click `Submit Comments', which is Time Dog secret code for System Reset.

With any luck, the numbers will scramble the Matrix, er, Kennel's Numberical Data System, short circuiting the mainframe and allowing my consciousness to cross the barrier.