One the aspects that I’ve always loved about being property is being treated like an animal. Well specifically, like a pet.
Master has been hand-feeding me recently. First it was grapes then segments of mandarin he’d peeled and held above my head so I could reach up and grab them like a well-trained circus act.
He had a warm glimmer in his eye as his did it and sometimes moved the morsel around so I’d have to follow it and reach up further.
‘That was so much fun,” he said afterwards.
Normally Master doesn’t like sharing his food. His food is his food and he said that he has never shared his food with anyone before but me. I feel kind of special knowing that he is willing to share his food with me and even take pleasure in it.
There was a time before that I ate everything out of one of these:
Of course, eating everything out of a dog-bowl is not without challenges. My brekky of nuked Weetbix and milk would usually involve me getting some of it up my nose (and of course, the nuking had to be done in a different bowl and then the finished product transferred to the stainless bowl for eating on floor). Sandwiches had to be cut up into bite-sized portions and everything had to be cooled enough so that third-degree burns weren’t sustained on my tongue.
On the pet theme, I also spend some time in this:
Which is big enough for me to fit in, but not large enough to be comfortable for very long. After several hours in my cage, I can understand why one of the easiest and most successful torture devices is something that keeps you in an enforced foetal position.
And then there’s this, of course, the ultimate pet accessory:
I have several, with chains of different lengths, straps of different colours and a really big mother-of-a-chain that’s not really a leash but that is used to leash me to his bed.
Slave? Pet? What am I?