my cave is never big enough

back to my cave where I behave
where no one stares when I carry her by the hair;
to the place where I've arranged the flowers
at my fire pit where I have slaved for hours..
where a roast on spit sits succulent to the bone
and my paintings on the walls all call it home

I try and talk with well-intended grunts:
It's all for her if this is what she wants..
but she smirks at my fresh picked bed of clover
and raves about that creature next cave over