Found 300 results
30.3s
You heard the rumor, right? About Doggy Chop. - Remind us again. - What rumor? - Oh, they folded. - Oh, no. Doggy... Doggy Chop folded? How about you, Chief? What was your favorite food? Me? Oh, I don't care. Garbage, trash, scraps of rubbish. - I'm used to left-overs. - Hmm. Yeah, yeah. Of course, I wasn't always a stray. Wait. What'd you say? I said I wasn't always a stray. - Really? Since when? - Tell us about that.
Isle of Dogs
1m57s
I've lost all of my pride I've been to paradise and out the other side Part Two: "The Search for Spots." With no one to guide me Torn apart by a fiery wheel inside me An untouched diamond That's golden and brilliant without illumination Your mouth's a constellation The stars are in your eyes I'll take a spaceship and try and go and find you The Middle Fingers of Trash Island wind and weave up-river, inter-stitched by zig-zagging pipe-lines and rusty viaducts. The ruins of a failed utility-complex washed-out by tsunami. The rubble of an abandoned power-plant demolished by earthquake. The remains of a deserted industrial estate destroyed by volcanic blast. I won't hurt you I won't hurt you I won't hurt you I won't hurt you The Old Trash Island Athletic Club, member-less and long-forgotten. Okay, I got a question. What's your favorite food? A double-portion of Doggy Chop from the can mixed into a bowl of broken Puppy Snaps with a vitamin crushed up into it. King's the spokes-dog for that. He's the Doggy Chop dog. - Mmm. Used to be. - Was that your daily meal? Not always. My master was a school-teacher. We weren't rich, you know. You? A center-cut Kobe rib-eye, seared, on the bone, with salt and pepper. Wow. It was my birthday supper. Every year. Mine's hot-sausage, yakitori-style. The snack vendor always saved me one on game-days. - Hmm. Duke? - Ah, green-tea ice cream. My master had a sweet-tooth. I probably inherited it from her.
Isle of Dogs
1m45s
I don't think I can stomach any more of this garbage. - Same here. - Words out of my mouth. I used to sleep on a lamb's-wool bean-bag next to an electric space-heater. That's my territory. I'm an indoor dog. I starred in 22 consecutive Doggy Chop commercials. Look at me now. I couldn't land an audition. I was the lead mascot for an undefeated high-school baseball team. I lost all my spirit. I'm depressing. I only ask for what I've always had: a balanced diet, regular grooming, and a general physical once a year. I think I might give up. - What, right now? - Right now. There's no future on Trash Island. You heard the rumor, right? About Buster. - Not sure. - Can you remind me? Who's Buster? Uh, my brother from another litter. - What happened to him? - Suicided. Hanged himself by his own leash. - Hmm. - Oh, boy. I want my master. Ah... You make me sick. I've seen cats with more balls than you dogs. Stop licking your wounds! You hungry? Kill something and eat it. You sick? Take a long nap. You cold? Dig a hole in the ground, crawl into it, and bury yourself. But nobody's giving up around here, and don't you forget it, ever. You're Rex! You're King! You're Duke! You're Boss! I'm Chief. We're a pack of scary, indestructible Alpha Dogs. You're talking like a bunch of house-broken... pets. You don't understand. Uh, how could you? You're a...
Isle of Dogs