It was 2:00 p.m. when I first heard Lucy, my Shih-Tzu, start whining.

I scooted over to the door to see if she needed to go out. Using my most singsong-y voice, I invited her into the back yard. She stood stock still. No movement. Again I sang. No movement. Only whining from deep in the bottom of her throat.

“What is it, girl?”

Concerned that maybe I forgot to feed her, I went into the laundry room and checked her silver, crown-embossed bowls (I wish I was kidding, but no, the Queen has standards. At least they aren’t sterling?)

Lucy, on her satin pillow. Fitting.

Her bowls were filled to the brim. But just in case Miss Priss knew something I didn’t, I emptied the water bowl and refilled them again, topping off the food.

She stood by the laundry room door and continued to whimper. Each whine more pitiful than the last. This time, I chose to ignore the whining and trudged back to my office.