(A guest post by Seamus)
Contrary to what a cursory look at my physical appearance would suggest, I am not a dog. I am a fully articulate sentient lifeform with deep emotional needs and expectations from my staff.
Just my name alone, Seamus Angus McTavish Broadmeadow-Walkup, invokes visions of royalty and noble bearing.
Despite my humble beginnings under a porch in the south, my intelligence and charm led me to the Kingdom of Cranston, where I established my court.
For some inexplicable reason, my regular staff, consisting of a pleasant-smelling female and a, shall we say, inconsistently aromatic male, occasionally disappear for days at a time and are replaced with two inferior beings who insist on me and my associate, Sir Ralph, being treated like dogs.
We have just survived such an episode.
I find this insulting.
I know I speak for my associate, whom they address as Ralph instead of the more correct Your Royal Highness, that he is insulted as well. My daily identification of him, through my refined sense of smell, by examining both ends and the appendage underneath, marks him “smells like Alpo mixed with carpet and a hint of sweat” and attests to his royal lineage.
Therefore, Sir Ralph and I wish to list our grievances at the hands of these ruffians and charlatans who are of apparently inferior upbringing.
They, contrary to our routine practice, do not allow us to sleep on the bed. We are forced like common farm animals to sleep on the floor. Their one concession is a small insufficiently luxurious dog pillow (oh the shame) that would barely suit a barnyard animal such as a pig or a cat.
They do not allow us to occupy our usual position on the couch to watch our TV shows. I particularly enjoy National Geographic when I can growl at the beasts.
They do not immediately respond to my requests to be let outside. My responsibilities demand I examine my kingdom on a regular basis, sometimes ten or fifteen times an hour. I am forced to wait at the door, sometimes for as long as 10 seconds, before they even bother to notice me.
And yet they often ignore me, making unintelligent sounds that are some inferior form of communication.
And while I am on that subject, would it be too much to ask that the replacement staff understand our language? It is quite simple. There are four forms of our sophisticated language that even these creatures should be able to understand.
Happy, Angry, Hungry, and Need to find an inanimate object to mark my territory.
Even this basic communication understanding eludes our jailers.
But, there is hope. The trained staff has returned from the mysterious portal that swallows them, and all is back to normal. Sir Ralph and I live in the hope that we will not be forced to endure another term of imprisonment with these inferior beings, but we know it is inevitable.
We hoped, over time, they would learn to be more appropriately attentive to our needs. But, I fear they are untrainable.