Sami turned seven today, and I genuinely don't know when that happened. I may or may not have cried a little yesterday. I'm fine now. Mostly.

We threw him a proper little party. Outfit first: a party hat I found at a party store (tolerated for roughly the length of one photo) and his t-shirt that says "I still live with my parents" - which, thank God he does, because who else would throw him a birthday party?

Then the cake. I don't bake. Let me repeat that for the record: I do not bake. But allergic dogs don't get bakery cakes, so I improvised - an oat base instead of wheat, milk and eggs, a heart-shaped tin, and an icing of cottage cheese mixed with peanut butter. And then the entire point of the operation: a mountain of mango and papaya on top, because those are Sami's favorite things in the entire world and the whole cake was honestly just a delivery vehicle for them.

He approved. Loudly and quickly. We sang happy birthday - twice, because the first take was interrupted by the birthday boy attempting early access to the cake - and he blew through his slice and campaigned hard for a second. There were presents too, unwrapped with the surgical efficiency of a dog who has done this six times before and knows exactly where the good stuff is.

Seven years of this dog - the allergies, the westitude, the opinions, the joy - and he still eats his birthday cake like it's the first food he's ever been offered. I don't know when seven happened. I suspect I'll say the same thing about eight.

See you at his 8th. If you want Sami's birthdays and everything between them, subscribe to Westie Vibes.