YOU have accommodated for my every possible need, yet still I whine. Why? The answer is not so simple, human one.
At first you thought it was my food. I cry at kibble, cry at wet stuff, cry at the incredibly overpriced branded type that comes in individual gold trays. I eat it, but without the zest the price tag demands. And still I whine.
Then you thought it was my bed. Which seems fine, yet I lie awkwardly in it and stare at you, whimpering like a Dickensian orphan. You have tried blankets, cushions, then gave in and let me sleep in your bed. I always sleep in your bed now. But still I whine.
Walkies? Too many? Too few? It would not matter if you ran me around every day as a sled dog, or never let my paws touch the ground like an ancient emperor. With a high-pitched sound just loud enough to cut through all music or television, still I whine.
Veterinarians can find nothing wrong with me. That doesn’t stop them advising that you buy me an endless list of nonsense, from hormone diffusers to stress jackets, each more expensive than the last. Still I whine. Louder, if that’s possible.
For the answer to my cries, dear human, is that I get off on the sheer thrill of it. What better way to pass the time than crying mournfully, watching your language grow increasingly colourful, stretching your marriage to breaking point. This is my circus of tears, and I am the ringmaster.
In short, why do I whine? Because I like it.
