I can tell he’s dying to say stuff. He looks at the door. He looks at me. He does a little dance. He looks at the door. He looks at me. If he could only speak. If he could only say, 'Take me outside, dammit! I want to chase cats ‘n stuff!’
He runs to his food bag. He runs back to me. He looks imploringly toward the kitchen where the food is kept. He runs and jumps up toward the food bag. He looks at me. He looks at the food. He looks at his bowl. “Why is my bowl empty when I’m clearly starving, you heartless wench!”
“Now scratch my belly and give me some lovin’!”
Who wants to chip in so that Angus can have a voice translator box thingie installed? It must be frustrating to be forced to play charades your entire life!