They call me Little Dog. My mom says my grandpa was Big Dog, or maybe his
grandpa? Or maybe his grandpa’s grandpa’s grandpa’s grandpa’s grandpa? I can’t
remember it. It’s not my real name, that would be silly. I am this many years
old tomorrow, and I’m so excited. They tell me I’m going to be getting a table
for my birthday. They seem pretty happy about it. I guess grownups all have
their own table, and when you get your own, it means you’re one of them. I
don’t know if I’m old enough to use my own table, but I see my mommy and daddy
using them all the time. They tap, tap, tap on it, and pretty pictures come up
on the top of it. I hear them arguing with each other about whether I’m
allowed to have a style to go with it. I don’t really care what style it is,
as long as it works. My big sister has a table, but she doesn’t have my name
anymore. When I’m old enough, our parents will have another brother and
sister, and he’ll be named Little Dog instead of me. That’s what my sister
says she used to be called. I don’t want to not be the Little Dog anymore. I
mean I don’t want someone else to have my name. I like being a Little Dog. I
like to crawl on the floor and bark at people. They seem to think that it’s
cute, but if I stop being the dog then I won’t be able to do it anymore. My
dad doesn’t get to see my dog game very much anymore because he always works
in the big office. They sometimes take me to see everyone, and all the people
in the blue jackets seem to think I’m pretty cool. Okay, bye!
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