Spring Is Here - Time To Go Potty!

Whilst Humum and The Frenchman have been busy planting seeds and preparing the garden for Spring, I thought I 'd give them a helping hand.

Things I Don't Understand About Humans #1

Why do humans waste so much time and energy training their dogs to do their business (or as my Humum embarrassingly calls it, our ‘empties’) outside? When we do eventually ‘empty’ in the correct place they rush over, often bending down behind us whilst we’re mid-empty, their plastic-bagged claw hovering like a hungry hawk distractingly close to our rear ready to whip its prey into the nearest waste receptacle faster than you can say Dr Poolittle. If they are going to grab and drop, why go to all the bother of making us do it outside in the first place? Surely that’s the equivalent of them emptying into the toilet bowl, fishing it back out again and dumping it down the waste disposal? Madness. Je ne comprends pas!

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.