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Richard Glover: It's my party and I'll howl if I want to

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Dear Mum and Dad,

It’s your puppy Clancy, writing from the city. Celebrations have been raging here for my birthday. I’m turning four, which seems an excellent age, although according to Man and Lady, this must be multiplied by seven, in order to “ascertain my age in human years”.

I’ve always thought this system was total rubbish, and yet they persist with it.

When I was one year old, they told me I was seven in human years. At the time, I knew some human seven-year-olds. They were pleasant enough, but entirely unfocused. Give them a mob of sheep to round up, and they’d have lost interest after five minutes. They’d have been slumped at the edge of the paddock, playing Minecraft on their laptops, possibly picking their noses, while I’d be left to do all the work, leaping and twirling with aplomb.

Happy birthday, Clancy! Have another soft toy.

Then, when I turned two, it was all, “Ah, Clancy, you are a real teenager now.” Teenager? What? Was I mooning around writing bad poetry? Was I standing in front of the mirror pushing my fur one way and then the other, before sighing heavily? Was I suddenly talking endlessly about Margaret Attwood, George R.R. Martin and other authors I’d never read?

Not guilty, your honour. Yet I’m labelled a teenager.

Name me the 14-year-old who you’d allow to mind the house. Or the........

© The Sydney Morning Herald