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.