Plague of the yippy

I believe that a shadowy worldwide organization exists to ensure that no matter where I live or even visit for a while) there will be a small, yippy dog nearby to make sure I don’t get any peace. I could set up shop in a cave in the remotest Urals, pack in supplies for a couple years, seal the entrance, and they’d breed a burrowing corgi that could track my scent through a mile of rock.

What possible reason do owners have for owning these dogs, and keeping them around when they’re so clearly unhappy? “Oh, Popper’s only barking for the third straight day because he loves you, Billy. Now let me put these earplugs back in.”