The Birthday Bag and Pizza Bones

I recently turned four years old. Four! That’s 28 in human math, which I find slightly offensive considering I still get called “puppy” on a daily basis. But I digress.

The day began with whispers. Suspicious whispers. The kind of whispers that suggest something exciting, possibly involving crinkly bags or—dare I dream?—cheese.

And then it happened.

A gift bag. Not just any bag. A Scottie-sized, crinkle-infused, smells-like-the-good-cupboard kind of bag. I approached with the poise of a gentleman and the tail-wag of a maniac. Inside? TREATS. TOYS. A ball that squeaks (so naturally, I bit it exactly 147 times in under a minute), a plushie shaped like a slice of pizza (more on that later), and biscuits that smelled faintly of bacon and destiny.

I made short work of one of the bones. The plushie I considered naming, but instead settled on shaking it violently to establish dominance.

Later, we visited my friends—my people, my loyal fanbase. These are the ones who always greet me like royalty and, on this most sacred of days, honored me with... pizza bones.

For the uninitiated, pizza bones are the crusts of the pizza slice. Pure, doughy joy. Forbidden on normal days, divine on birthdays. My Papa tried to protest, but was overruled by a chorus of “Oh come on, it’s his birthday!” My moment had arrived.

I graciously accepted my offerings. Crust after crust, tail wagging with the rhythm of my heart (and possibly the carbs). I licked every finger in the room just to make sure they didn’t forget whose day it was.

As the sun set and I curled up with my new squeaky slice, I reflected: Four is a fine age. Dignified, experienced, but still spry enough to vault onto laps uninvited. I’m older, wiser, and quite possibly a little fuller.

So here’s to another year of treats, toys, loyal subjects, and—if fate is kind—more pizza bones.

With tail wags and noble snorts 🐾