We celebrated our third child’s birthday a couple of days ago. The Princess Spoodle turned six – an event bigger than Australia Day in our household, and a double celebration because, in spite of the statistics, she hasn’t been got by a tick yet.
We could be accused of going over the top in the celebrations for our dog’s 6th birthday, but we are Brits by birth, so… whatever…
Her gifts included a new fur-lined bed, because she decided that the last one looked a bit crap WITH stuffing, but that stuffing could be re-cycled and put to good use as a style feature when re-deposited around the apartment; a new Skunk toy to kill randomly every few minutes, because in spite of our teachings, we cannot get rid of certain of her more determined ‘dog’ features; and some VERY naughty foodie treats.
For her birthday dinner I cooked Spaghetti Bolognaise, or biscetti as she calls it, and because it was her birthday I made a concerted effort not to scream in anguish when she rolled around my cream carpet afterwards to get rid of her orange spaghetti beard.
This little dog is the epi-centre of our family’s emotional universe. She is the family glue.
Arguments are smoothed over more quickly with the Princess’s special powers. She is always there, ready to fill the cracks. Filling the cracks might involve exhausting Kurt’s angst with some rough and tumble, taking the old man out on a brisk walk or cuddling away NC’s boyfriend blues.
But she’s always there.
She regularly shares a bottle of Chardy with me, although she does point out the inherent dangers of wine before we finish the bottle.
She is the equivalent to the UN on our home battle field – a white flag of hope – and we all adore her far more than we like each other.
Strange really, because when we finally decided to acquire a dog all those years ago, after procrastinating for what others would describe as an eternity, and after a ridiculously exorbitant amount of research to find THE PERFECT BREED – as in, least likely to bark, bite or lay massive poo logs – we thought the kids would be too old to be interested.
Rather like they were after we’d spent two years income on a swimming pool.
But they adore the Princess and the Princess has adapted to their individual needs. It’s almost like she was made for us. So much so that she even shares our familial anxieties – she hates strangers, the phone ringing, loud noises and going out – although that also means she’s a bit of a spoiler on firework nights and wasn’t too excited about the 21 gun salute on Australia Day, either.
Anyway, I thought I’d share her birthday cake recipe with you, the success of which I can only put down to slaving for hours in hellish traffic on the highway to Chatswood in heavy rain, just so it was fresh for our precious third child.
Go to Donut King.