It's That Time Again - Merde!

ALL THIS BLOGGING & TWEETING CAN GET A DOG DOWN...

"Talking Dog" at The New Venture Theatre, Brighton

Last week I had the pleasure of attending a rehearsal for 'Talking Dog', which opens at The New Venture Theatre, Brighton, on Saturday 10 December.

I've chewed my way through many an ounce of rawhide at rehearsals for various shows and events at the NVT (where Humum often performs). But, when I saw Talking Dog, bones were the last thing on my mind. As I entered the theatre it sounded like there were dogs everywhere. However, when I looked around, apart from me there was only Daisy, the director's long haired Jack Russell, soundo on the stage manager's lap.



So where were all the barks and whines coming from? You could've knocked me down with a rabbit-flavoured twizzle stick when I realised the human actors were quite literally 'talking dog' - and behaving like them too! Unused to being around humans who can talk dog, naturally I wanted to join in. Unfortunately, barking and jumping up at the actors wasn't conducive to the rehearsal process, but my reaction confirmed they had succeeded in their anti-anthropomorphism, much to the delight of director Sarah Davis.

When I'd calmed down, I spoke to professional performer and drama-teacher, Davis, about the show:

"It started out as just a title based on a joke a friend had told me about a talking dog," says Davis. "I also had a method and a way of collectively devising I wanted to put to the test."

All she needed then was four willing and brave performers, a massively creative and supportive crew and a Great Dane-sized leap of faith.

The result is a unique piece of theatre that engages and transports the audience on a shared magical storytelling extravaganza using puppetry, mask and a good yarn to tug at your heart strings. More specifically it is the tale of Eddy the dog who travels through his local woods to seek out Crow, the Angel of Death. Eddy's doggy sense informs him that his beloved owner, Mrs Wilson, is soon to die. Having been her loyal companion for many years, he wants to be allowed to make the final journey with her. Along the way Eddy recalls memories of those humans he has loved and lost, such as Mr Wilson and Marty their son, and of significant dogs he has known, in preparation to answer Crow's question. He is familiar with the myth of Brindle the Original Dog and knows that upon meeting Crow, he must answer its questions successfully. Only then will he stand a chance of succeeding in his wishes.

I told Sarah that the thing I find most exciting and original about the show is the fact that all the human characters are in full face mask and are therefore silent. Only the animals can talk.

"Most performers rely heavily on facial expressions, gaze and voice," says Sarah. "In Talking Dog all these elements are removed with full-faced mask, alongside much of one's sight."

After rehearsals I was lucky enough to hang out with the cast, Claire Armstrong, Mark Green, Frank Leon and Leanne McKenzie at the dog-friendly Temple Bar across the road from the theatre. In return for crisps, strokes and tickle-bellies I gave them some tips on begging and slobbering and even demonstrated some real-life butt-sniffing with the hot Spaniel at the next table. After exchanging butt-scents, I asked said Spaniel if he'd like to come to the theatre with me to see Talking Dog. He called me a crazy bitch and told me everybody knows dogs can't talk. I told him to 'talk to the paw, because this cute Frenchie face ain't listening'. Word up.

Talking Dogs runs from Saturday 10th - Saturday 17th December. Curtain time on Tuesdays to Saturdays is 7:45pm. On Sundays, performances are matinées, commencing at 2:30pm. No performance Mondays. For further information and to book tickets visit http://www.newventure.org.uk/home.asp

Who needs posh dog toys when you can play with plastic water bottles - of course I would've prefered Evian

RIP Ethel - aka The Shar-Pei

I have to admit I didn't tell the whole truth in my profile: yes I suffer from Ailurophobia (an irrational and persistent fear of cats); yes I have a penchant for all things nylon and yes I'm rarely out of bed before midday. The fact that I live with my Humum and her French boyfriend is also true; I simply failed to mention that, at the time of creating this blog, there was somedog else living with us - Ethel, the 12-yr-old, blind, arthritic, maloderous Shar-Pei. Shar-Pei's were originally Chinese fighting dogs, but you probably know them better as the big cute wrinkly dogs commonly featured on the front of greeting cards: They normally say something along the lines of 'Another year, another wrinkle' and feature a picture of an unamused canine or two - you know the ones.

For the first seven years of my life I'd been an only-dog. Then one ordinary day in August Humum brought home The Shar-Pei. Turns out Humum had inherited her from a family member who didn't know anybody else who would be willing or able to look after his dog after he'd gone. My humum may have been willing, but what about me? Nobody asked me (or the Frenchman judging by the look on his face when he got in from work). The smell hit me before The Shar-Pei did (being blind she had a tendency to walk into things, me included). Granted, us dogs are partial to smells that most humans find heinous, but The Sharpei's smell was enough to make even the most hardened butt-sniffer queasy. Think yeast, think sweat, think infected skin folds. Think dog bums. Think of all of these things rolled into one big fat stinking ball of smell. Humum spent a small fortune on scented candles and air freshener during the brief time The Shar-Pei was with us. For it was brief. Sadly, Ethel only survived another two months.

Though it was tough at first - and yes I admit my nose was put out for a while (as far as a brachycephalic's nose can be displaced) - I developed a fondness bordering on sisterly affection for The Shar-Pei and I'm sad she's gone. Ethel was a stoic, loving, brave old bitch, who didn't let adversity stand in the way of her food-bowl. Though it took her a lot of time and effort (and probably some pain) to walk from her bed to wherever she needed to get to, not once did she whimper or complain, not once did she mess in the house and she never stopped wagging her tail.





Humum claims Ethel had a new lease of life in the short time she was with us. She certainly seemed content, using her specially made wooden step to climb onto the sofa for evening cuddles, finding her way up the garden steps to the patio to sunbathe; chewing and masticating her way through impressive amounts of rawhide. I even managed to get a few tug of wars out of her, which - ahem - she won (not surprisingly; think mini-hippo). My only wish is that she could have stayed longer.

Pup Aid 2011

On Sunday I went to Pup Aid in Stanmer Park. It's like Glastonbury for dogs, but on a much smaller scale and the nearest you can get to drugs are joint supplements for arthritic Labradors. Oh, and it's for a very good cause - to raise awareness about the UK's cruel puppy farming industry. There were dog shows - unfortunately I arrived too late for the Prettiest Bitch heats, but at least it gave somedog else a chance of victory; there were celebrities - Brighton's very own Mark the Vet, Gresham Blake, Patsy Palmer and the Fast Show's Mark Williams. There was a hearing dogs display, lots of stalls selling all sorts of pet paraphernalia and a great live music line-up including Los Albertos and Bitter Ruin (I was hoping for the Corgis or Snoop Dogg but no such luck). There were bling bitches and diva dogs dressed to the (ca)nines; there was butt sniffing galore; but most of all THERE WAS CAKE.

What I don't understand is why, when surrounded by dogs of all breeds, shapes and sizes, humans gravitate towards the same breed of dog as their own. Whenever Humum sees another French Bulldog she rushes towards it like it's a long lost relative; with all the gushing and cooing you'd think she'd never seen one before, let alone lives with one. Then she'll start talking to the dog's human about, of course, French Bulldogs, whilst us dogs are left to get better acquainted. I think our humans assume that just because we're the same breed we'll automatically get on. Truth is, I don't like French bulldogs - I find the majority of them immature and clingy. Give me a British bulldog any day, or even an American one (preferably one that's just eaten). Unluckily for me there was a considerable number of French Bulldogs at Pupaid this year, which meant a lot of time hanging around bored whilst Humum waxed lyrical with other Frenchie owners. How would she like it if I rushed over, barking and salivating, to every 5ft 4in, green-eyed skinny brunette I saw?

But let's not forget what the day was really about - raising humans' awareness to the horrors of the UK's puppy factories. Compared to what some dogs are forced to endure, I really shouldn't grumble.

Things I Have Eaten or Chewed Which, Judging From My Humum's Reaction, I Shouldn't Have

1 Feather Duster
1 hairbrush
1 Sheepskin Rug
1 Designer Sunglasses
2 Mobile Phones
1 Thigh length nylon stocking
2 Box of chocolates
1 Roast dinner left on table whilst my humum went to the toilet
1 Picnic hamper full of cupcakes
Furry Cushions - several
Shoes - several
Pop Socks - several
G-strings - several
Cuddly Toys - several
Wood - lots
Corks - lots
Plastic bottles - lots
Soap - once (never again)


Some of the above I was caught eating red-pawed. Others my humum discovered only on their 'exit' route. One resulted in a near death situation and its subsequent extraction cost my humum £600 in vets fees. The near death situation warrants its own post, so I shall save the finer details for another day...

Until then...Bon Appetit!

Allo Allo

Allo, allo. My name’s Edie, after Edith Piaf, and I’m a French Bulldog. I think my humum thought she was being culturally 'savant' naming me after France’s greatest popular singer, but the irony is I’ve never been to France; I was born and bred in Clapham. I can’t even sing. However, there’s one thing France’s little sparrow and I have in common – je ne regrette rien. I don’t regret chewing my humum’s mobile phone, brand new Ray Bans or vintage Manolos. I don’t regret tearing up her in-laws sheep-skin rug, pooing on Victoria station platform in rush hour, or gorging my way through a picnic hamper full of home-made cupcakes (if humans chose to picnic in the dog section of Queens Park, they should do so at their own risk). I’m a dog and that’s what we do. Some humans would argue that dogs aren’t capable of experiencing complex emotions such as regret, but that’s for another blog. Today I’d simply like to introduce myself, seeing as you’re going to be hearing a lot more from me over the coming months. As I said my name’s Edie (Edith when I’m bad), although over the years my name has morphed into a bewildering array of subriquets including Speedy Edie, Speeds, the Eed, Oedopus, Edit, Yedit and Yeds. My pedigree name is Lady Bailey, daughter of Chavas and Malibu. I come from a litter of three, the average litter size for French Bulldogs. At the time of writing this post I am seven years old, but apparently I look and act younger than my age – as you’ve probably gathered, my humum is prone to the occasional touch of anthropomorphism - a common trait in pet owners. But as with the nicknames, I’ve learnt to humour her; as far as I’m concerned she’s the dog’s bollocks and although she can be tough at times, her bark is worse than her bite. My humum came for me when I was 3 months old; we spent our first year together in a flat in The Docklands, before moving to Brighton. Here I discovered grass and a more fulfilling way of life, the highs and lows of which I look forward to sharing with you in this blog.