I'm at his feet begging for it, and he knows exactly what I want. I gaze up at him as he looks around, and seemingly, out of nowhere pulls out one of my toys. Instantly, it's all I can look at. I get a rush of adrenaline, desire, shame, and pride all at once. He knows it, and with a smirk he waves my poofball around in the air giggling as my eye follows it and I meow in desperation. "Is this what you want, pretty?"
Yes, it is what I want, but it's not just the poofball, infact, once I get it the fun is all gone. Instead, I want to earn the poofball.
He gestures and I know it's time "One...two....THREE!" The poofball goes flying through the air and I after it. I sprint so quickly my little paws loose traction on our cement floor and I slide for a second. I see it land. I want it. I want to have it. I NEED it. I run, my anticipation building as I get closer and closer, and then--it's over. I have the poofball.
I put it in my mouth and begin my slow- yet triumphant- return back to the throwing spot. As I walk over I wonder, "Why do I love this game so much? Is it a desire to please them? No, I know they love me and are proud of me. They give me face scrachies all the time. Is it the thrill of the chase? Am I some kind of junkie who constantly searches for her next jolt? If so, then why poofballs? Why not something else--perhaps mice or lasers? What is it about them that I love so much? Perhaps it's not the poofballs at all. Perhaps it's just my internal desire to beg for them, the pride I get when I return, and the desire I have to serve again."
I get back to the sofa and drop the ball at his feet. He picks it up and pats me on the head "Good girl! Again?" I gaze up at him and the poofball and meow desperately. Again.
