“Little pup, little pup, what might you want?” Liza asks the finely-trimmed Pomeranian trembling in her arm-wreath. Given permission, the pup seizes control of her nerve-stricken limbs and nearly catapults her over the balcony's edge. The extended hanging prompts a life-saving correction from Liza: “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! What might you want!?”
“Let them eat cake!” Her Majesty blurts out in the foulest tongue her breed allows. Declines to direct commands must be earned before they are even suggested – and so Liza hastily feeds the frizzy royal sweet strawberry fondue, improvising seconds with the scarce material available while said tyrant chews, lest the assembly line of treats be unavailable for the following slobber. Even chocolate cake for dessert fails to quench this demagogue, and the sacred Wreath demands that the kitchen stays alit indefinitely. With the threat of Pomeranian lacerations tampering with the vein in Liza's finger tethered directly to her heart, Liza rescinds every invitation from her circle of friends, and becomes Pomeranian’s best friend.
By virtue of the Providence of the Wreath, several days of overabundance produce a bulge in the Pomeranian's stomach. The weight is unbearable on Liza's axons, but upon Her Majesty’s insistence, her royal servant follows suit. Presently their cerebrum is one and the same, even instinct cannot separate the Wreath; Liza feels dread curl over her skull upon spotting a freely flying red-winged blackbird dare to mount the royal balcony, portraying it as some rundown pit stop - the disgrace! That pest! Goosebumps shred Liza's skin as Her Majesty rabidly ascends to her throne. The Pomeranian commands an assaulting leap, and even if given invitation to exit, no practical wits exist to resist.
The Queen is dead.
Video Narration: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kzty9XRwqic&ab_channel=dogshiin