Cavalier King Charles Spaniel

I come with royal lineage built right into my name, so treat me accordingly, gently and with snacks. I want a lap, a soft voice, and someone who indulges the whole royalty bit even though we both know I sleep upside down with my tongue out.

I've got the soulful eyes of a Renaissance painting and the impulse control of a much smaller creature. My favourite activity is being near you, my second favourite is being closer than that. Royalty, apparently, just wants to be held.

My heart needs real attention, mitral valve disease is common enough in my line that annual cardiac checks are not optional. My ears need cleaning too, floppy and prone to infections in this humidity. Being descended from actual royalty doesn't come with a health exemption.

You want a dog who greets every homecoming like the second coming. You don't mind a lap warmer who considers personal space a foreign concept. And you'll actually get the cardiac screening papers before you fall for the eyes, because you know you should.

King Charles the Second reportedly let my ancestors into Parliament. I haven't been invited anywhere official since. I remain hopeful.

Swipe right. I'm sweet, a little needy, and dining out on a seventeenth century reputation.