Okay, I actually have come up with a name for my challenge, based on the abbreviation for the Writing for Children’s (W4C) group at Spalding University, my MFA alma mater. So here goes for the first one. Let me know what you think:
THE DOG GONEDEST BIRTHDAY PARTY
“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Tippy! Happy birthday to you!”
George’s voice was anything but melodious. In fact, it hurt my ears nearly as much as a dog whistle. But what the heck? As pets go, George was a pretty good one. He was ten years old, which was the perfect age–too old to pull my tail or try to pick me up by my ears, but still young enough to be able to throw a ball lots of times and go for a good long walk every day. I’d had him almost all my life. Ever since I picked him out when he first looked into my mother’s basket. I knew right away that he was the one for me and scrambled over my brothers and sister in my eagerness to tell him so. Had that really been nearly two years ago, human time? It seemed like only yesterday.
” Oh, oh. I forgot the candles. Be right back!” George hurried into the house.
My next door neighbor, Spike, was at my party. His pet wasn’t there because he had to go get his teeth tortured at the dentist’s. Poor kid.
Spike and I eyed each other. We were sitting on wooden chairs on opposite sides of the picnic table with a napkin tucked into each of our collars. In the middle of the table was my birthday cake, a cylinder of dog food. George had cut both ends off a can of my favorite Wooffy Chow and carefully pushed the whole thing out onto a plate. The coating of grease on its sides glistened seductively in the sunlight. My stomach rumbled.
“George told us to sit and stay,” I reminded Spike, who was drooling like a leaky faucet and leaning far too close to my cake.
“I am sitting–and staying, “ Spike replied. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t take a lick, does it? Just one tiny lick? Ah, come on, Tippy.”
“W-e-e-l-l-l, I suppose it’d be okay,” I agreed. The aroma of chopped chicken parts and horse meat was making my head swim.
We both stuck out our tongues and rasped them over the top of the cake. Oh my Dog! It was delicious. I could tell by the glazed expression in his eyes that Spike was taking a trip to taste bud heaven, too.
“Just a tiny bite? Look, I’m still sitting,” Spike begged.
I could hear his tail thumping hopefully against the back of his chair. Or was that my heart thudding with desire? Where was George with those darned candles?
“Just a nibble,” I murmured, my muzzle swaying of its own accord toward the cake. Spike got there before me and bit a big chunk out of the top. “Hey! You said a tiny bite.”
“Shorry,” Spike slurred as he chomped, swallowed and ran his tongue around his chops. “Yum.”
I wasn’t about to let that glutton get ahead of me. I closed my teeth around a nice, big glob. It had a heady bouquet, piquant with just a hint of liver. I savored the rich aromas and grainy texture for a moment, then swallowed and leaned dreamily toward the cake for another bite. Spike was already there.
“This is MY cake,” I growled, trying to shoulder him out of the way.
“Well I’m the guest.” Spike growled back.
“I’ll guest you!” I barked. “Keep your big fat muzzle away from my cake!”
“Make me!” Spike sneered.
That did it. We forgot all about sitting and staying. Jumping off our chairs, we began snarling and rolling around, tearing off each other’s napkins and scrabbling to get the upper paw. Suddenly, a stream of cold water hit us. George had heard us arguing–we were getting kind of loud–and turned the hose on us. Needless to say, that was the end of my party.
Spike shook himself and slunk back to his yard. “Sorry,” he mumbled as he went past me. “Guess I got a little carried away.”
“Me, too,” I said, giving him a quick lick on the shoulder. “Thanks for coming. See you tomorrow?”
“Sure.”
George put the rest of the cake in my dish. For some reason, it didn’t taste as good as it had on the table. I ate it anyway.
