I can hear the singing through the elevator door two stories down. She is singing for cheese. She somehow manages to already be sprinting as the elevator slides open, right past my naïve attempt to sneak a cuddle, down the small hallway, skidding as she does a sharp turn for the kitchen, planting her big furry behind firmly in front of the fridge. She then stares at the fridge as if it will escape the moment she looks away, and waits impatiently for me to run up behind her, and complete my one and only mission (as far as she is concerned): to provide the cheese. I fumble with the cheese, since this is great pressure; she is in a hurry, she hasn’t eaten for many minutes, she can’t believe how clumsy I am at that speed, nor how small the chunks of cheese I give her are, but it will do. With longing in her eyes, she says goodbye to the kitchen, as she is coaxed to the therapy room by her owner, who is mumbling something about “dovolj” (while Bella* and I know it is most certainly never “dovolj”). As she reluctantly gives up her cheese frenzy, and settles down for a gentle physical exam, she zones out as the humans discuss joints, bones, muscles, tendons, nerves and all sorts of medicine, and she dreams, instead, of cheese.
*Names are changed to ensure anonymity of the main stars of our opus