The Terror Of Toby

It’s the late 1980s, and I’m about 12 years old, in my second year of (UK) high school. Our Home Ec class now involves actual cooking and baking, and each week we get to make something we can take home. Although I grew up to have no interest whatsoever in cooking, at this point, little me is quite proud and excited to be ‘providing for my family’.

One week we make a cake. It’s just a simple Victoria Sponge type thing, but mine comes out pretty good (if memory serves).

When I get it home, both my parents are at work, and my brother is still at school. There to greet me is my dog, a border collie called Toby. Our other dog, a German Shepherd, is at work with my Dad. I’m only home briefly before heading out again to some sort of after-school activity. I’m peckish, so I decide to have a slice of my cake before I go. I put the cake on a plate on the kitchen worktop and mentally divide it into eighths (two slices each for my family of four) and cut myself an eighth. It’s pretty good.

I go off to get changed and ready for wherever I’m going, and when I come back downstairs the cake is calling my name. I should leave my second slice for after dinner, but resisting cake has never really been in my skill set. I eat my second slice and write a note for my family which says, “I’ve had my share; please help yourselves to the rest”. I say goodbye to Toby and head out.

When I get home a few hours later, I’m greeted by my family, all talking over each other: ‘Where is it?’ ‘Where did you hide it?’ etc. I’m baffled. Eventually, they lead me to the plate where I’d left the cake, which now contains my note and one single crumb right in the middle. They’re convinced my note – telling them I’d had my share and to help themselves to the remainder – and the solitary, perfectly placed crumb were me being cheeky, and that I’d deviously hidden the rest of the cake to mess with them.

What they failed to spot was the dusting of caster sugar and big smile on the face of Toby the Border Collie!