When I was six* mom and dad told us that our beloved Collie, Romeo, ran away to be with his girlfriend, Juliet. I believed them.

It made sense. Romeo was always getting out. Someone, probably me or Danny, would leave the garage door open and he’d run out from the backyard, through the garage, down the driveway and out onto our calm suburban street. Dad stopped what he was doing and gave chase. He had to catch Romeo before he got hit.

He got hit once. They took him to the animal hosptial. After that, he didn’t come home. That’s when mom and dad concocted the story.

I believed this well into my teens. Yes, it took me that long to figure it out.

***

I don’t remember ever playing with Romeo. There are no photos of him in the many albums and shoe boxes full of family photos. However, there are some photos of Dandy, Papá Chepe’s collie. I believe he was Romeo’s father. Some of his other offspring had been sent to live with my tío Beto (Queenie) and my tío Chuy.

Tío Beto sent me those photos recently. In them, the cousins, Danny and I are playfully petting Dandy at Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni’s former Boyle Heights home. I remember going on walks with Papá Chepe and Dandy around the neighborhood. I don’t know what happened to Dandy. I imagined he died of old age. Now Papá Chepe babies VR, our Chihuahua mix, just like the rest of the family. He also takes him for walks. The only difference? Papá Chepe now carries a cane and moves much slower.

* Or seven or eight, the age is not really important.

I was a party girl.

Every Saturday, I had my hair done (colitas o trenzas), donned a frilly dress with matching socks and chonis, and slipped on a pair of black or white patent leather shoes (purchased in Tijuana, scuffed up by me, shined by dad).

I’d follow my beautifully made up and dressed mom and dapper dad out to our car with the other siblings.

We’d arrive at the party where my parents would proceed to greet their dozens of friends and family. We kids dutifully followed, as it would be rude not to greet our aunts/uncles/padrinos/madrinas.

I went to dozens of parties as a kid. There were weddings, anniversaries, quinceañeras, bautizos, and fundraiser bailes. I can’t forget the parties where my dad played as a musician with los Marcianos. Yup, I went to those too.

I liked the parties. There was food, cake, and plastic champagne flutes. After the brindis us kids would collect the plastic cups from the tables. We’ll pull apart the base of the champagne flute and use it as a makeshift spinning top. Sometimes, we’d leave the copa in tact and build towers.

When not stealing copas, we’d play tag, steal extra bolillos from the kitchen and run around the dance floor.

I always made time to stop on the dance floor. I imitated what I saw around me: hips shaking to the beat of a cumbia; feet stomping furiously to the music from the super loud tamborazo; and tacones and botas intertwined as men and women danced closely.

Sometimes I’d dance with my friends and sometimes I’d cut in to dance with my mom or another tía. I’d grab her hands and dance with her. Later I’d be old enough to dance with Papá Chepe. I rarely danced with dad as he was usually playing with the band.

Most of the times, I just danced in a circle on my own as I hummed along, “no te metes con mi cucú!”

When I got tired, I went back to our table and pushed two chairs together. I’d barely wake up as dad carried me out to the car and drove the family home.

Even party girls need rest.