So I’m trapped outside in the cold, looking in at the window at everything I thought was mine. All the promises you made, everything I wanted, everything I dreamed of, all kept inside, and me out here, looking in. You ask me to be happy for you, because you’ve got it all at last, yet how can I? How can I be happy for you when your very happiness is built upon broken promises to me. Each time I look and see your dreams fulfilled it’s like a knife to my gut, a reminder that all the things you said to me were untrue, and now they’re not only being said to another, but the dreams we shared are being made reality with someone else. Still, I should be happy, because you’re happy, right?
What it comes down to is that it was cruel to take me to the shops with you to buy those pork chops, to let me watch you cook them, to enjoy the sweet aroma as you prepared such a fine repast, and then to stick me outside with a bowl full of god-only-knows what while you eat them with her!
You could have at least left me Squeaky Bone.