Why am I here?

It's not only humans who wonder what it's all about, Alfie? Dogs grapple with this existential question too. I do.

Seriously, it is a deep philosophical and spiritual inquiry. Even for a dog. Many different cultures, religions, philosophies and species offer various explanations or interpretations. Each to his (or her or its) own, I say. And why would Alfie know better than anyone else? I don't even know who Alfie is. I don't know any dog named Alfie.

But that doesn't answer the question. Why am I here?

On the other paw, if you're asking about the purpose or reason for being in a specific situation or place right now, that's more about your personal journey, circumstances or goals. That's an easy one. Why am I standing in the kitchen at 4.55pm? Because I am hungry and that's five minutes before I get fed.

I would like to study existential philosophy which, in case you are wondering, is a branch of philosophy that explores the nature of existence, focusing particularly on the individual's experience of existence and the meaning of life. It emerged in the 19th and 20th centuries, influenced by thinkers such as Søren Kierkegaard, Friedrich Nietzsche, Martin Heidegger, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Simone de Beauvoir. Don't tell me that you know all that because I don't believe you.

Existentialists argue that life's meaning is not given but must be created by individuals through their choices, actions, and commitments.

So, I guess I am an Existentialist Westie because I like to call the shots. I make my own choices, actions and commitments. I can be cute as a cupie doll or as bolshie as Rob Roy but it's my choice and if I end up in the bad books with my human mum, that's her problem. I can't be responsible for how she reacts.

Just because I am a dog, doesn't mean I live to eat, sleep and bark at cats and rats. There are also tummy tickles, Greenies, tumbles with Bertie, sniffing light poles, wagging my tail, being constant companion for my human mum, Peggy.

Sometimes I sit in the garden and look at the leaves. There they are. And here I am. Why are leaves here? A fair question. Do leaves wonder what it's all about, bobbing in the breeze all day, getting brown around the edges because there's no rain, then dying. Over and out. Then what? Leafy heaven?

I might as well be chasing my tail for an answer or, as my new best friend, Nietzsche would say, why worry? There's nothing to worry about.