Dramatics - Big Time!

It's official. My well-mannered, normally undemonstrative dog, Buddy, is a Drama Queen. The vet said so. Here's the story. Buddy had been listless for several days and, when a neighbor fondled his ears, he yelped loudly and sharply. This wasn't the first time he had yelped after a minor jar, so I emailed his foster mother to ask if she had noticed that Buddy had a tendency toward complaining over practically nothing. She said no, that he had only yelled when she picked him up to put him in the car. She attributed that to a touch of arthritis in his shoulder, given Buddy is seven. Then she suggested he might have an ear infection. That sounded reasonable, particularly when, late Friday morning, as I stretched my hand out to pat Buddy's head, he yelped again before I even touched him. He sounded as if he were in real pain. Wanting to be a good dog owner, I decided to call the vet.
On Friday afternoon, we showed up at the appointed time and Buddy proceeded to rival the best of the Shakespearean tragedic actors. I lifted him up onto the examining table and he cried out. The vet assistant poked a Q-Tip into his right ear and his howls and squirms convinced us both that he must have a raging infection down there somewhere. But that dog hadn't even begun to protest yet. He exceeded all previous volume when the thermometer slid into his rectum. He yipped, he whined, he screeched and whimpered. Oh, he was dying here! Couldn't we tell that he was in desperate straits?
I imagine every pet owner sitting in the waiting room must have clutched his/her respective pet a bit more tightly as the agonizing yelps filtered through the door of the examining room. Did an equally horrific future await their loved animal as well? What was going on? Fortunately, Buddy had no fever so, pending the results of the slide sample, the assistant said I probably just had a drama queen on my hands- that Cavaliers often were.
After several anxious minutes, while the smear was being analyzed, the doctor came in and took a second swab. The first one had been negative. (The second one was too.) Considerable poking, prodding, and examination followed, all of which provoked at least one further howl of agony. This kind and thorough vet finally smiled, said he couldn't find anything wrong and was inclined to agree with his assistant's diagnosis but if I noticed anything further to be sure to call him, day or night.
So that's it. That dratted dog trotted outside, shook hands (after a fashion) with a giant poodle and a Westie, wagged his tail at all and sundry while I paid big bucks to the receptionist and we left. Oh, yes. I forgot the one bright spot in this entire episode. Buddy has lost another half pound. Onward and downward.