Peter Murray, a small dog of strong opinions and boundless energy, was one year old.
His person was a girl named Inez, who was perhaps fonder of Peter Murray than of anything else in the world, which he considered an entirely correct state of affairs. For his birthday, Inez had sent invitations to every child she knew who owned a dog.
Mr. Dog Peter Murray
At Home
In Honor of his First Birthday
All the dogs accepted.
The morning of the party, Inez went to Peter Murray’s basket and said, “Many happy returns.” He was out of the basket in one bound and jumping for joy — which was his way of saying, “Thank you, Missy” — his tail going very fast.
“We have work to do,” said Inez, taking out her little purse and jingling the coins. Peter Murray put his head to one side and then to the other.
“Bones,” said Inez. “And goodies.”
He knew that word.
The guests arrived that afternoon, each dog accompanied by its child, each dog carrying (via its child) a gift for the guest of honor. Peter Murray received a pink bow, a new collar from Inez, a hard rubber ball, a stick for throwing, a second-best collar for everyday, and a box of chocolates.
Then came supper. Inez threw bones into the air, and the dogs leaped for them — no sitting politely at a table, no waiting to be served. They threw the bones into the air themselves and jumped for them again, and wrestled each other for the best ones, and had an excellent time.
There was ice cream in little bowls, and then the cake — a proper birthday cake, topped with a sugar dog that was nearly a good likeness. In each slice, hidden carefully, was a small bell. These were Peter Murray’s gifts to his guests. The bells were dug out and admired.
It was, everyone agreed — dogs included — a very successful party.
