On the Futility of Existence, or Why I'm Stuck in this Dog House

As a dog, I've spent my whole life chasing sticks, only to have them taken away from me. It's a metaphor for the human experience, if you ask me.

My tail is wagging, but my heart is dead inside. The existential crisis is real, folks.

So, what's the point of it all? Is it the chase, the catch, or the snack that follows?