Chapter One

He was called Mr. P., short for Peanut-man—though the wanna-be star in him much preferred to be known as P. Doggie Murph-The Barking Blur. Above all, he was excellent at getting lost and causing trouble for others—even if it was unintentional.
“Come back, Mr. P. you’re going the wrong way.” Murphy shouted on top of her lungs through the crowds and above the rumpus at Penn Station, as she watched him disappear up the wrong staircase headed toward Amtrak.
Murphy, the beautiful leader of the Murphdogs® walked ahead of the others, concerned that her long, black, shiny coat of hair was sweeping the dirt up off the ground. The others tripped along in a hurried pace in order to keep up with her. Valentine, the one with the black heart on her side, stayed close to Mikey, their Main Man—the brave one.
They all stopped to take a good, long look around the station, which was jam-packed with holiday shoppers and workers on their way back home. The air sizzled with joy and tingled with the excitement of buying holiday presents. Harvest pumpkins and chocolate Thanksgiving turkey displays were mixed in with early Christmas tinsel. Hot pretzels and bubbling pizza stands made everyone’s mouth water. Newspapers crunched beneath passengers’ feet like the crackle of dried leaves. Travelers carrying packages, bumped, pushed and squeezed into each other.
“Hey, hurry up,” P. stopped, long enough to call out to the others. “Look, it’s me, I’m famous. This is fierce. My name’s everywhere; you are in the presence of a real live, walking, talking celebrity,” he panted out his excitement. Checking out his friends’ faces proved to be disappointing when he saw just how unimpressed they were. That was when he sneered at them. “Are you not getting this? Just look around you. I’ve been discovered,” he said, twirling and pointing in different directions.

Murphy skidded to a stop. A confused expression covered her face. What on Earth is he talking about? “Oh no,” She said aloud to no one in particular, slapping her forehead; she moved in closer to get a good look at one of the food stands before pawing at a package of PEANUTS. “Get real, will you. It’s not about you. What’s wrong with you anyhow?”
But Mr. P. was too caught up with himself to pay attention—especially to anyone who was trying to burst his bubble, along with his dreams of fame and fortune.
“The train to Oceanside will be arriving at 5:15 on track 18,” Mikey called out, cupping his mouth to simulate an echo, as he repeated the announcement he’d heard earlier. The Murphdogs® were on their way home from New York City; a city built on top of black tunnels that snaked beneath it, deep and forever, only to be lit up by the headlights of lumbering trains, crawling like clumsy, sleepy dragons, angry at being awakened.
Mr. P. zoomed on ahead, eyeing the peanut bags, an idiotic grin on his about-to-become famous face, or so he thought—dream on Mr. P.
Murphy mounted the stairs after him, leaving sight of the other two who remained behind. She reached the top in time to see him scoot under the swell of passengers lining up to board the train. She heeled back on her hind legs and waved her front paws at him. “No. Stop. Mr. P. That’s not our train.” She tried once more to yell above the din of the crowd. It was useless. She knew that her cries were being drowned out. I have to follow him, she told herself; angry that once again P. had put her into an uncomfortable position. With no time to alert her other friends and with no other choices available, she ran onto the Amtrak train after him.
An electric bolt of worry charged through her as she feared that Mr. P. was about to cause trouble again. “Move it.” People shouted at Mr. P. and then Murphy, bothered by the underfoot scampering, as they tried to enter the train before the doors closed. Everyone was shoving, shouting and elbowing each other as they hurried to their seats. At the same time, Mr. P. was running in the opposite direction, getting trampled on as he tried to get out of the way; thinking that perhaps it would be a good idea to make one last stop at the PEANUT stand before catching up with his friends. Can’t do that if I don’t get off this train, he thought. Am I even on the right train? he wondered, realizing that perhaps he wasn’t paying close enough attention before heading off away from the others. Yet through all the commotion, there was a nagging feeling deep within him, driving him wild. He just had to have some of those PEANUT bags. Once I’m rich and famous the next stop is Hollywood, he fantasized. Then I go it alone—so long Murphdogs®. Watch out—I’m almost ready for my close-up.
Mr. P. yelped with pain as he tumbled out of a rear door, landing on the now emptied, and eerily quiet platform. “This is incredulous.” He said aloud, using his own echoing voice for company. “No one’s getting it, are they? Doesn’t anyone recognize me? I’m the famous Peanut-man—the one everyone put signs up about—they’re selling food with MY name on it,” he mumbled, shaking his head back and forth in total disbelief, disgusted that even his closest friends could act so not cool about something that was so in-their-faces, very cool indeed.
Looking over his shoulder into the darkened narrow space, he jumped at the buzz of an overhead light that gave out a hollow, yellow glow before it went black. The station was drafty and shadows loomed on both sides. He shuddered and caught himself before smashing head-on into a station pole. Maybe, it’s time for me to get outta here, he told himself as he picked up his pace.
Before he had time to develop his next daydream, he was startled by the sound of his cell phone ringing. “Glad to hear that you’re not too much of a celebrity to answer your own phone,” Mikey said, not even trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, then continued on with, “And where in this world are you anyhow?”
“Think that’s funny Mike? How’d you like it if I made jokes about your name—like if it was you who became so famous? Huh?” he asked.
Mikey interrupted with, “Whatever—just tell me where you are—I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Instead, P. kept walking back toward Penn Station and answered him with, “I don’t think I like trains very much,” trying to muffle a cry, as he gulping down mouthfuls of air. “And they don’t like me very much either.” A whistling noise escaped his nose as his mind’s eye brought back the angry crowd that had tried to trample him. “Not that I was scared, it’s, it’s just too overcrowded. If it’s all the same to you guys, I’d really rather fly next time.”
Then, as if seeing a dream come true, he pictured the bags of peanuts, his namesake, and he became all fizzy and giddy. “But you did see the signs, right? Tell me; is my name everywhere or not? Am I not famous?” He rambled on.
“So? Who cares—even if that thing about the peanuts were true—which it’s so definitely not, you’re getting on my nerves, so quit it already, for goodness sake,” Mikey barked into the phone, “Just back off P, I’ve had it—and get yourself and Murphy back over here. That means NOW.”
P. froze. It all hit him like a ton of peanuts falling down on top of him. “Don’t hang up,” he said. “Isn’t Murphy with you? Cause she’s not with me,” P. held his breath, hoping to hear that Murphy was with Mikey and Valentine.
Mikey looked at Val in a way that said, I don’t know how to tell you this. Then, Mikey spoke into the phone, while still looking at Val, “We have a problem here. Murphy’s gone missing and you didn’t even realize it until now?”
Val grabbed the phone and said, “Start thinking back, P.”
Oh no. Mr. P. thought, a cold chill creeping under his paws. “I am thinking,” he cried, “But I just don’t know. Maybe I can’t remember, or maybe I didn’t pay attention. Just wait there and don’t move,” he said; all celebrity dreams in him gone, as he bolted up the stairs once more for the Amtrak station—this time in search of his friend. We’re supposed to be four, he worried, so where’s Murphy?

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