Feed me, asshole. I can smell the food you’ve prepared and are eating. Why don’t you share it, motherfucker? I know, Alpha, you control the food and tell me where to go, but I’m hungry. Not like I’m allowed to go eat my own food. I can smell it but can’t get to it. C’mon—I’m starving.

Ooh, an itch. I can just bend towards it and lick. I don’t like when my crotch is itchy. I need to keep it clean. Lick, lick, lick…aah…that’s so much better.

I’m lying here on the rug watching Alpha eat. My ancestors were tundra-running dogs pulling sleighs across the ice. Before that, I was told that we’re directly descended from arctic wolves who hunted prey in the snow, getting tasty, warm blood all over themselves. They ate whenever they god damned wanted to!

I’m going to sneak over and see if there’s anything Alpha left behind. Sniff, sniff. Nothing. Maybe, if I remind him that I’m here and hungry. I nudge my muzzle against him.

Don’t shake that can of pennies at me—I’m the queen of all dogs.