The Sun-Herald

Happy birthday, you old mongrel

It's my dog Zach's birthday today and down at the park the poor little fella heard what you least need to hear on such a day. A man looked down at him, smiled indulgently and said: "old bloke, is he?"

As it happens, Zach's 12, which is old. If he was a human, he'd be well into his seventies by now. But I'd never believed he looked it.
I started watching him more closely as we walked. Despite the heat, my dog bounded from bush to bush, burying his face deep in every smell, turning round to grin at me with his tongue flopping sideways whenever he found a particularly pleasing one. His coat gleamed. His tail beat time with his jaunty swagger.
Zach isn't arthritic or slow or stiff, he hasn't gone grey anywhere and he's only deaf when he chooses to be. His bouncy gait and demeanour, along with his large muzzle, feet and ears, often convince strangers he's a pup.
We stopped so I could give him a drink of water and when he'd finished he looked up at me, curious about what we were doing next. I met his familiar brown gaze and then I saw what that man had seen: the years in his eyes.
Although bright as a youngster's, Zach's gaze is the only part of him that betrays his seniority. It's the same with humans and I see it a lot on the party scene. No matter how nipped and tucked and stretched a person is, you can always calculate their age down to at least the nearest five years by looking into their eyes. All their knowledge, their accumulated joys and sufferings, successes and regrets are written there and cannot be erased. There is no facelift for experience.
When the cosmetic surgery is good, it's especially weird. To confront the eyes of a 60-year-old in the carefully constructed face of a thirty-something is like looking through the eyeholes in a mask. Which I suppose is exactly what it is.
My dog's eyes are calm, confident and wise. They are the eyes of an initiate into secrets a dog can only know after more than a decade with nose to the pavement, ears to the air and daily, patient observation of the species with whom his ancestors threw in their lot long ago. In that gaze is understanding; an acceptance of the way things are. Yes, his eyes look old.
I feel sad, because it reminds me our time together will one day end, and I don't ever want say goodbye to my dearest friend. I can't imagine life without the flamboyant eccentric who likes to bury cucumbers in the garden, is frightened of his own farts, never tires of chasing flies and raindrops although he catches neither, prefers to play fetch when there is no-one watching and pretends to swim in the shallow surf by walking on his back legs while paddling with his front ones. I can't contemplate walking without him at my side, even on days like yesterday when he slipped his lead, marched off on his own to the British Lolly Shop, demanded the Schmackos he knows are kept under the counter then peed on their display as he left by way of thanks. Like everyone who meets the curiously endearing black and tan mutt with too-short legs and too-long body and comedy ears, they forgave him.
When I laugh, it's usually because of Zach. When I cry, he sniffs the tears, sighs and lies down beside me. At dinner time he spins in circles and when I play the piano he snores.
In some some ways, I'm pleased he's showing his real age at last. I'm always moved by the sight of people with their old dogs. There are two types: those who've had their dog since puppyhood, which means their care and love for that canine companion has endured over time - the way it sadly so often doesn't - or those compassionate enough to take on a rehomed dog in the final years of its life. Either way, they're good souls and I'd be proud to be counted among them.
As for Zach, he remains oblivious to the march of time. He is still absurdly, delightfully optimistic about everything. He believes the day will come when the butcher's shop allows him unlimited access, when he will be permitted to take what he wants from any cafe table he likes and that dinner will arrive early and more frequently. For him, each new day begins with the same hopes he's always had, none of their fervour lost. And any disappointments from the previous one are forgotten.
That's the crucial difference between him and those humans with ageing eyes in ever-young faces. You never see regrets in a canine's gaze, because they don't have any. A useful trick to learn from an old dog.

• by Amy Cooper at 08:05 PM
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Why Kings Cross needs more rubber

Hearing Lleyton Hewitt extolling the virtues of Plexicushion tennis courts this week reminded me of a very important local campaign I'm heading. I've already drafted a letter to Clover Moore about it:

Dear Clover Moore,

RE: Campaign for rubberized pavements

Your Lordship the Mayor, I write on behalf of a growing number of concerned residents of the Potts Point/Kings Cross area to draw your attention to a danger lurking (literally) on the streets of our neighbourhood: the ground.
A series of regrettable incidents has demonstrated that the ground in this suburb can no longer maintain the equilibrium or dignity of its residents. The latest, a pile-up outside Hugo's involving three models, a hairdresser and a shih-tsu - in which a small waiter was accidentally de-bagged - illustrates with tragic clarity the urgent need for comprehensive change in the composition of our footpaths.
As you may be aware, this area now has more bars, nightclubs and restaurants per capita than any other suburb. In fact, at the last count, there were exactly 7.5 bars per person. Someone has opened a wine garden in the wheelie bin next to my front door and there is an after-hours shabeen in the second tree fern from the left in Beare Park.
As a result of this over-abundance of pleasure establishments, many locals now find themselves unable to move around the area vertically. Much like a children's playground, the triangle of Potts Point, Elizabeth Bay and Kings Cross is a place inhabited by people who wobble and often unexpectedly tumble to the ground.
Our solution is simple: rubberise all the area's pavements with the sort of bouncy material used to render children's playgrounds safe for the balance-challenged. We recommend starting with Bayswater Road and progressing along Darlinghurst Road past Madam de Biers and the AFL Club all the way to the Bourbon. Special attention should be paid to the area outside the Empire, where bouncing on impact may be more frequently necessary after assisted exits from the establishment.
Funding for such projects is of course always a challenge and to this end we suggest enlisting the tennis court surface-cushioning company Plexicushion as sponsor. Already endorsed by such sporting greats as Lleyton Hewitt and Maria Sharapova, the new surface could be supplied by its manufacturers in exchange for naming rights. Of course, all businesses would have to adjust their signage - IE the Plexicushion Empire, Plexicushion Trademark, Plexicushion Brasserie, Hugo's Plexicushion Lounge and Lady-Plex-Lux - but we believe this would be a small price to pay for the enhanced safety of valued clients. We would have no objection to changing the name of our suburb to Potts Plexicushion Point if necessary and we could even examine the possibility of holding sporting events, such as dwarf-throwing and lobster racing, on the re-surfaced pavements as part of the sponsorship deal.
We sincerely hope you will give this pressing issue your most urgent attention. A petition is currently circulating and will be delivered to you soon.
We would also like to point out that we have considered various alternatives such as rubber bodysuits and protective headgear but as I'm sure you will understand, these were dismissed for aesthetic reasons. Here in Potts Point nothing is more important to us than our safety - except looking pretty.

Yours sincerely,
The (potentially) upstanding people of Potts Point, Kings Cross and Elizabeth Bay

• by Amy Cooper at 10:56 PM
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What I'm not giving up

I can't stand the frenzy of masochism and abstemiousness that heralds the beginning of each year, so I don't do resolutions. In fact, I proudly audit all my bad habits and vow to pursue them with renewed vigour throughout the coming 12 months.

For those who share my passion for unconstructive pastimes, here's what I'm going to continue to do in 2008:

Waste time online
My diversions of choice include, of course, Facebook and some of its more intriguing groups, such as "They do exist! I've seen a Tasmanian Tiger or know someone who has!" and "I hate the awkward arm."
I will also continue to enjoy the access provided by the Web to the world's most compelling eccentrics, such as Chinese hip-hop grannies and modern prophet David Icke, who believes the world's influential people - including the Queen, Chris Kristofferson and Mick Jagger - are reptiles in disguise. Icke was once a journalist who one day started wearing only turquoise and declared himself to be the messiah. (This was not an occupational hazard I foresaw when embarking on this career. Thank goodness turquoise makes me look washed-out.)
I will also continue to linger over Amiannoying.com, a barometer of celebrity pestilence. Their Most Annoying of 2007 will divert you from doing anything useful for quite some time.

Watch more crap TV
Working from home and cable TV are a combination as lethal as psychopathic teenagers and You Tube. And yet in 2008 I refuse to shun the pleasures of my favourites:
Seconds From Disaster: moment-by-moment deconstructions of all your favourite tragedies. The one about the Hindenburg, as I've previously mentioned, rocks.
I Shouldn't be Alive: extreme scenarios of survival that make you ponder questions such as 'would I eat my friends?'
Diagnosis Murder: Dick Van Dyke and his idiot son Barry bother their local homicide unit by 'helping' solve murders. Somehow, a magic trick by Dick is always included.
Dr 90210: Beverley Hills plastic surgeons hack chunks from the stomachs of the rich and obese and do some nose and boob jobs while leading a normal family life. They have everyday worries too!
Dead Famous: An ex-children's TV presenter and a 'sensitive' visit the scenes of celebrity deaths and offer insights including: James Dean's car crash hurt, and Elvis needed help as he died in his bathroom. The best bit is that even the presenters clearly believe it's all a load of bollocks.
I will also put aside time for any made-for-TV movies on Hallmark starring the late John Ritter, the lesser-known ex-Charlie's Angels or Jimmy Smits.

... and crap movies
Last year I wrote a book about these called Night O' Shite and although for research I watched hundreds of turkeys, I still can't get enough cinematic dross. Why labour through Atonement when you could be at home relishing John Travolta's prosthetic forehead in Battlefield Earth?

Eat stuff I'm not supposed to
I will continue to visit Kings Cross' most notorious pusher, the British Lolly Shop, in pursuit of my homeland's best exports: Squirlies, Planets, Thorntons toffee and Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle.
I also have no intention of learning to cook as long as I live within walking distance of Lizzie Bay Gourmet (Sunday roasts, Johnnie's mum's spinach and fetta tart), India Down Under (lamb bhoona and kashmiri kulcha) and Arun Thai.

Drink more than my recommended weekly units
It's my job, OK? A duty, and a calling. Except that makes it sounds far too much like a resolution. All I can do is promise to try harder.

• by Amy Cooper at 11:09 PM
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