You are sad, Springer Spaniel, when your family is eating a big juicy steak, and they don’t share any.
Everyone else in the room partakes of the scrumptiously grilled rib-eye but you. You sit under the table, near the humans' feet, and make guttural sounds but they still won’t give you any food. You nuzzle their leg, lick their boots, and bark, so they notice you. They still refuse you that tasty meat that you are salivating over.
You would do anything for it. You would do tricks that they would never imagine you could do like balancing upside down on your head and spinning the housecat off your back paws like they do in the circus.
If only they knew how desperate you are.
If only they knew how you were suffering under the table. You kneel down and rest your head on your paws as if you’re bowing to a king. If they give you some meat, you will allow them full reign over you. They could pet your fur against the grain. Or they could leave you in the bath all day until you shrivel up into a Chihuahua. They can make you bark to a cheesy song or wear a goofy pair of sunglasses. You’d do anything.
“Meat, meat, meat,” you woof repeatedly. You bark in a friendly tone at first, and then you growl more demandingly—like you are in charge.
But you are a foolish Springer. There’s nothing you could do to get the steak that you desire. Nothing.
They continue to ignore you. You hate when humans make believe that you don’t exist. You will ignore them when they want something from you. When they want to snuggle in your warm fur, you will turn away. When they toss a tennis ball at the beach, you will not fetch. When they want to show you off to their friends, you will act untrained and wild, jumping on them, smelling their crotch, and nipping their heels like a Dalmatian.
“Wait!” you say, hearing a loud thud on the floor. You know exactly what it is. Something has fallen. You jump up and scramble to the kitchen. “There it is,” you yelp. “Oh boy,” you bark. It’s a bone, and it’s raw!
Everyone else in the room partakes of the scrumptiously grilled rib-eye but you. You sit under the table, near the humans' feet, and make guttural sounds but they still won’t give you any food. You nuzzle their leg, lick their boots, and bark, so they notice you. They still refuse you that tasty meat that you are salivating over.
You would do anything for it. You would do tricks that they would never imagine you could do like balancing upside down on your head and spinning the housecat off your back paws like they do in the circus.
If only they knew how desperate you are.
If only they knew how you were suffering under the table. You kneel down and rest your head on your paws as if you’re bowing to a king. If they give you some meat, you will allow them full reign over you. They could pet your fur against the grain. Or they could leave you in the bath all day until you shrivel up into a Chihuahua. They can make you bark to a cheesy song or wear a goofy pair of sunglasses. You’d do anything.
“Meat, meat, meat,” you woof repeatedly. You bark in a friendly tone at first, and then you growl more demandingly—like you are in charge.
But you are a foolish Springer. There’s nothing you could do to get the steak that you desire. Nothing.
They continue to ignore you. You hate when humans make believe that you don’t exist. You will ignore them when they want something from you. When they want to snuggle in your warm fur, you will turn away. When they toss a tennis ball at the beach, you will not fetch. When they want to show you off to their friends, you will act untrained and wild, jumping on them, smelling their crotch, and nipping their heels like a Dalmatian.
“Wait!” you say, hearing a loud thud on the floor. You know exactly what it is. Something has fallen. You jump up and scramble to the kitchen. “There it is,” you yelp. “Oh boy,” you bark. It’s a bone, and it’s raw!
