Engineered by Randy Burns
Mastered by Jeff Sanders at Kendin Recorders.
Recorded at Orange County Recorders in 1981

Dogs was released on the Hell Comes to Your House compilation album in 1981

Musicians: Rozz Williams (vocals), Rikk Agnew (guitar), James McGearty (bass), George Belanger (drums)

The Contempo Records clear vinyl LP is a Limited Edition of 1000

In autumn or in dirt, rather in dirt, for where has she not been from the great glass halls where women are sold for twenty francs and sometimes tewnty-five louis for flesh at a penny, Folies-Bergere and the Casino de Paris, as far as the wings with their foul air of big and small theatres, from the studio of the lodger of Mr Claretie with its water-colours signed by famous name to the suffocating box of the cafe-concert diva, she has seen everything, haunted everything and gone into everything in depth.

The filthy and superb slut of digs and hovels who are at some other time had been Messaline on all the squares of Suburre, she had been in modern Paris where her buggy is as well known in the large lonely avenues of the Gobelins district as in the stinking alleys of the Villette. Her mask belongs to a caricature, with its thin profile and skinny bones, its depraved eyes of a schoolgirl who has read Virgil and Theocritus too young, her hips and flat chest belong no more to Forain than to Lunel; they belong to the public, as public as her acts and thoughts and words with their punch and her angry bored insolence, which has kept the street gossips fed for then years. In turn a kept woman and a woman who kept, she has squandered fortunes, melted down millions in the crucible of here boredom, flaunted with actresses, clow and princesses and, as did Pauline Borghese long ago in the studio of Canova, she has posed in the nude and nothing else in the cruel novels of Rachilde and Mendes.

If only she was amused by it, but not even that. It's through weakness, by boredom that this jaded soul has been lost, that incurable and despairing boredom which is the real secret plague of her life and which has made her cry out and proclaim loud and clear throughout the world the vices she doesn't even have, the elegant anomalies that for a while it was done to flaunt in the upper circles where one amuses oneself, the vices of posing and parading that made her famous in the Acacias as well as in Montmartre, on the sports beaches and in the spas where one plays, and which from scandal to scandal, from guardian  to divorce, and from asylum to police court, where she almost sat down in the middle of the ninth chamber, have brought her to where she is now, today, to the nervous breakdown, to morphine, to the cerebral lesions which make her mistake cruelty for love and mix loving sadism with the macabre.

Oh! the bad wine of strong emotions, the kind whose intoxication stunts the will and prepares the way for depressives and maniacs, woe betide he who lives on others' nerves much more than his own, and whose senses only awaken with the violent commotions of the brain.

And that is where she is now.
After having slipped as far down as sadism and trying to revive the revolting insipidness of daily joys by the salt taste of a drop of blood, she has arrived at the macabre: and when the girlfriend whom she feeds (for she now has only platonic friendships) senses that the purse of this miserable, woman is tightening when she hears calls for loans, what does the gentle Hippolyte do to soften and bring back to her that affection which is all the more generous now she is aflame?

Quick, a word to the undertaker and an order for funeral invitations and the card announcing the death of the less-loved one is immediately sent to the boarding-house of the Soul of Dirt who unfolds it, shudders, throws on her otter coat and runs, hurrying to the hotel of the deceased who is already laid out in silver lame sheets, with undertakers and hearse in front of the door.

Soul of Dirt, demented, climbs the two floors, flings open the doors, and in the loved one's boudoir, transformed into a mortuary chamber, finds Hippolyte lying in the coffin, in a robe of white silk, candles all around the burial wreaths and bouquets of white lilac, arrangements of violets and of mauve orchids in the gloom of mourning crape; in short all the decor of a sumptuous death.

The deceased is herself artistically made-up, already decomposing under her white theatre powder, with adroit touches of blush: the hands are as rigid as those of a corpse and the faint smell of phenol floats through the bedroom; the coroner has just left and all they were waiting for before nailing down the coffin was the arrival of madame. At this point Soul of Dirt comes to life, falls to her knees, sobs, with kisses, tears and sweat she wets the painted cheeks and the hands of the deceased, waters down the make-up, creases the shroud, and Hippolyte, gently awakening, props herself up in the coffin and smiles hello again to the reconquered Soul of Dirt: a small scene of theatre, a theatre from beyond the grave, which is renewed three times a month and which, although tricked and organised in advance, delights Soul of Dirt with a childish joy.

Then she feels her heart.

Wednesday, the 9th of November, 1892