Zeus was not having a good day and he made sure everyone knew it. Maybe it was the storm, or maybe it was that they had run out of dog food again and had given him cat food. It always upset his stomach and gave him the shits.
Certain conditions Zeus regarded as more or less permanent. He was never allowed inside, he was never taken for walks like so many of the dogs he saw passing by his house, he was never touched by anyone. They rarely picked up his turds, and clouds of flies would swarm and settle on him whenever he moved.
That he never ran out of water was more an accident than anything else—his bowl sat in the mud beneath a perpetually dripping hose bib.
Barking, Zeus knew, accomplished nothing, but he could not help himself. He was not having a good day. Everyone in earshot knew that much.