The Thing on my neck.

Hello. I am Cruiser. I am half St. Bernard, which means I am large, and half Bernese Mountain Dog, which means I am fluffy. That is all I know for certain.

There is a Thing on my neck. I did not ask for the Thing. I do not recall ordering it. It appeared one day, like the mailman, who I also do not trust.

Here is what the Thing does:

Sometimes I bark. I like barking. Barking is when I hear a noise, and I also become the noise. It is very efficient. But when I bark, the Thing goes beep beep beep — a small, rude sound, like a smoke alarm that has given up on life. And then — and I cannot stress this enough — it buzzes. On my neck. Where my fur is. Where I live.

I do not know why the Thing does this. I have theories:

The Thing is jealous of my bark. My bark is big. The Thing's beep is small. It knows this.

The Thing is trying to sing along and is simply very bad at it.

The Thing is a bug. A metal bug. I have tried to eat bugs before. I am not allowed to try to eat this one. (I have tried.)

So now when I bark, I must also think about the Thing. And Cruiser is not a dog who can think about two things. I can think about one thing, or I can think about a leaf. That is my whole system.

Sometimes I forget and bark anyway, because a squirrel looked at me, and the Thing beeps and buzzes, and then I remember: oh right, the Thing. Then I feel bad, because I have disappointed the Thing, and also my neck is buzzing, and also the squirrel is still there, and now I have three problems.

I would like the Thing to go away. I would like to bark at the mailman in peace. I would like to be a dog who is large and fluffy and loud, as nature intended, without a small robot commenting on it every time.

I have tried to explain this to Dad. I looked at him. I did the eyebrows. I did a sigh — a big one, from the chest. He said "good boy" and gave me a treat, which was nice, but did not address the Thing.

Also, today I stood in the doorway. Not through it — in it. Exactly in it. Hilux wanted to go outside, and Sequoia wanted to come inside, and I wanted to be with Dad, who was on the other side of the doorway. So I stood in the doorway. This solved nothing, but I was there for it, and I was proud.

Hilux yelled at me. Hilux yells at everyone. He is the police. I respect the police. I did not move. He yelled again. I wagged. Then Sequoia leaned on me, which is how Sequoia says hello and also how Sequoia says "move" and also how Sequoia says "I am a lapdog." I am big. She is big. The doorway is small. This is what Dad calls "a situation."

Dad said "Cruiser, buddy, come on." I came on. I always come on. I do not always know where. That is the fun of it.

Dad says I am not terribly smart. I think he means I am very smart, in a way that is hard to see, like a bone buried in the yard. You would not know it is there. But it is there. Probably. I buried something there once. I forget what.

Please remove the Thing. Or at least tell it to stop beeping. It is, frankly, embarrassing for both of us.

Thank you for your time. I have to go now. There is a leaf.