Mac was a fine Airedale, and he belonged to Janet and Mildred, whose father was having a birthday. The house was full of anticipation. Mac sat and waited, as dogs do on occasions that clearly involve food at some point.
The presents were opened, and Mac assessed them honestly. A pipe. Tobacco. A necktie. Mac had worn ribbons on various special occasions and didn’t think much of them; neckties fell into a similar category. Largely pointless. Then there was candy, which was a sensible present, and Mac approved.
The festivities continued. Mac stayed close.
“It’s time for the birthday cake!”
Mac was on his feet at once. It would have been rude to be late, and an Airedale with good manners is never rude.
The cake was brought out with candles — rather a lot of candles, Mac thought, which seemed unnecessary and a potential fire hazard — but then it was cut and distributed, and Mac’s opinion of the whole celebration improved sharply and permanently.
That night, settling down to sleep, Mac reviewed the day with a fair mind.
The candles: a bit much. The necktie: pointless. The birthday business generally: not entirely his sort of thing.
The cake: very, very good.
He fell asleep satisfied.
