The speaker opens with a blunt, funny self-portrait: a dog that has gotten hold of art and gnaws at it. From there the poem reads like a string of grumbles. The critic doubts that works labeled "great" deserve the label, mocks the awkward results of art made by committee, and scoffs at a culture that cuts up bodies and calls it art. The last two lines are the strangest. A man who has never been pregnant and boys wanting a pig seem to point at people judging or craving things they don't really understand, though the poem leaves that connection open.
The speaker sounds skeptical, irritable, and a little self-mocking. Calling himself a dog suggests he knows his criticism may be more worrying than wise. The mood is sharp and playful, with a prickly humor. The short, clipped fragments feel like offhand remarks, as if we're overhearing a critic complain with a half-smile.