He never longed to return back home, particularly because he hadn't a clue what home really was. StormClan? The Frontier? England? Home, home, what is home?
It was both saddening and maddening that such thoughts would plague his mind, cursing his vibrant heart to darken and succumb to gloom. He was naturally outgoing and content with life, yet restlessness was inevitable, and it was now that he acquired such a trait. Much time was spent pondering this, considering why he would feel such a strong emotion now and not before. Many said that home is where the heart is, and he found his situation pitiful. He trusted those around him, but he couldn't bring himself to call them home. The world was constantly changing, and eventually they would leave him, the pathetic bread loaf-sized dog with stumpy legs. Or he would leave them. Nothing lasted forever.
And if he did leave, where would he flee? Was there an even more bountiful place beyond the Frontier that would grant him access? And what if that place was further away from the Clans altogether? Pity that he was to live such a cruel reality, to doubt those around him as well as himself, rather than be content with living with such generous people. It was disappointing, worthless, yet ever so intriguing. And it filled him with sorrow to know that if there was such a grand place beyond the Clans, surely he could not access it. Questions filled his once-innocent mind, one after another. Where is home? What is home? Should I stay here? They're very nice people...
Why is there a piano here?
How was it that Bentley had failed to notice that beautiful, dark piano dwelling inside the castle, begging to be played upon? He was no pianist, no musician, but he was willing to give it a shot. The corgi reluctantly leaped onto the chair and lifted the cover to press onto the keys slowly. Still sound good enough. It was awkward to watch him jump from key to key, given his very minute stature, but he seemed to know just what he was doing. His ears twitched, and a soft smile spread upon his maw. Ah yes, he knew what to play! This was a song that he was quite fond of, one that expressed his situation of disappointment.
One strike of the key and he was off.
"It's a God-awful small affair
To the girl with the mousy hair
But her mummy is yelling no
And her daddy has told her to go
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
Now she walks through her sunken dream
To the seat with the clearest view
And she's hooked to the silver screen
But the film is a saddening bore
For she's lived it ten times or more
She could spit in the eyes of fools
As they ask her to focus on
Sailors fighting in the dance hall
Oh man, look at those cavemen go
It's the freakiest show
Take a look at the lawman
Beating up the wrong guy
Oh man, wonder if he'll ever know
He's in the best selling show
Is there life on Mars?
It's on America's tortured brow
That Mickey Mouse has grown up a cow
Now the workers have struck for fame
'Cause Lennon's on sale again
See the mice in their million hordes
From Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads
Rule Britannia is out of bounds
To my mother, my dog, and clowns
But the film is a saddening bore
'Cause I wrote it ten times or more
It's about to be writ again
As I ask you to focus on
Sailors fighting in the dance hall
Oh man, look at those cavemen go
It's the freakiest show
Take a look at the lawman
Beating up the wrong guy
Oh man, wonder if he'll ever know
He's in the best selling show
Is there life on Mars?"
A convenient way to return to activity, he presumed.