I am a lapdog. Obviously.

My name is Sequoia. Sometimes just Seqo. Sometimes it's "absolutely not, you're not a lapdog." But I am a lapdog. Obviously. I have tried many times to just be one with Dad, Dexter, Paxton, and more recently Taylor. Taylor is the only one who really allows me to be one with my humans. That's all I want. I am basically a land seal. I look at you with my eyes like saucers.

Well. I want that, and I want to eat. It's like my cousin Kula says: "Why do they throw away this perfectly good FOOD?" Like my brother Hilux, my stomach is good at processing anything I give it, so I want everything I can get.

I read Cruiser's statement about the Thing on his neck. Cruiser. Buddy. Sweetheart. I have a Thing too. I have had a Thing for a while. Here is the secret: you just don't bark. You look at the squirrel. You hold it in. You save the bark for later, when Dad is not looking, or when Dad is looking but it's a good bark, a welcome-home bark, a there's-someone-in-the-driveway bark. The Thing does not beep for those. The Thing only cares about the rude barks. So be rude on the inside. It's the same, except your neck doesn't buzz. You're welcome.

Also, Cruiser, about the doorway. I leaned on you because I love you, and also because you were in my spot, and also because I am a lapdog and you are the closest thing to a lap in that hallway. You are a very good lap. That is a compliment. Take it.

I hate when Dad leaves us at home. I love car rides. I love climbing in the front — Dad tells me how much he loves it. He says "Get in the back!" and "Sequoia, I can't drive with you sitting on the shifter." Well, duh, Dad. You're supposed to be giving me love, not driving.