By Caro Cooper –
I can pinpoint the day that I decided being with my dog was better than being with friends. It was my 12th birthday party.
I was big on parties, my parties, as a kid. I’m talking epic parties with every kid invited, the best games, a clown one year, Women’s Weekly cakes, the works. I wasn’t popular and yet the kids still came – that’s how good the parties were. My mum even sewed little pencil cases to use in place of lolly bags, and that was before landfill was something we acknowledged.
I was pumped for my 12th birthday party. It wasn’t going to be a huge blowout (I was maturing, you know), but I had a 10-plus person guest list, the forecast was sunshine, the cassettes were ready to roll, the pool was sparkling and Dad had his usual wicked games planned.
The day before the party, Mum said we had to pick up some supplies on the way to my tap class. I got out of the car in my leotard only to be handed a small dog, sung “Happy Birthday” and told he was mine. My world changed. I still remember it, 30 years later. The smell of him, the fragile birdlike feel of him, his little black head and baby-blue collar. Rupert was mine.
The day of the party, I woke early to check on my new best friend. Truly, I’d hardly slept. We ran amok in his playpen. Rupert’s razor-sharp baby
