Dogs. Why?

Dogs eh?  Why do we have ‘em?  Is it that just that we need something that loves us unconditionally, without any form of discernment whatsoever?  Is it for the warmth of fur?  Is it because it takes us back in some atavistic way to when we first made friends with wolves?

As I type this I can hear a cacophony of barking. I can hear the anguished wail of a man who most probably (I don’t dare look) has a terrier attached to a soft part of his anatomy while a small hybrid medieval beastie (looking suspiciously like a small beagle) laughs from the sidelines.  And I wonder why deliveries don’t always get here eh?

Asbo.

This dog thing.  You know what’s coming, don’t you?  A few nights ago, I was sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, with James, making the right growling noises at the X Factor while reading a blog on the laptop.  Asbo was off inventing new ways to shorten my life and the SP had just come back from the pub with James and Adrian and had settled in the fireplace (yes, in).  Then, just as another homogenous pub singer started warbling, he took himself off. 

Ten minutes later I went to put on the kettle.

The SP.

‘Adrian! The dog’s been sick on the sofa.’  The lovely little red antique sofa that I’d rescued from my old (as in ex but also relatively aged) therapist’s house.  Quick aside here: I once told her about a dream in which I’d seen The Cure and fully expected her to talk about how dreams speak in metaphors and to quiz me on my personal ‘cure’ but instead she simply said. ‘I used to be the band therapist for The Cure. Robert – dear boy.’  Cool huh?

Anyhow, I went back to the (other) sofa (vast, yellow, from a nice shop in Sherborne) and went back to throwing insults at the screen. 

‘It’s not sick,’ yelled Adrian.

‘Well, it ain’t a smoothie,’ I replied.

‘No. I mean it’s diarrhoea.’

Oh FFS. And, in the time it took the judges to say another act had nailed it, made the stage their own and were meaning every word, the SP went from being perfectly fine to being really ill. As in standing shaking like a leaf with saliva dripping from his mouth and...

‘Shit,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ said Adrian. ‘It’s that bloody dog food!’

‘What bloody dog food?’

‘The stuff he won’t eat.’

Eh? 

‘That weird dog food you got sent for free.’

‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous! They don’t make dog food that makes dogs violently ill. How bloody stupid would that be?’

‘Well….’  He didn’t sound too certain. Thought a bit and then took a deep breath and launched back in. ‘Well, if he hadn’t been hungry, he wouldn’t have eaten whatever it is he’s eaten that made him ill.’ Triumphant.

Meanwhile the poor SP stood, shivered and dribbled. 

‘Stop arguing about the bloody dog food, you two,’ shouted James. (yes, he swears, what can I say?) ‘What about the pup?’

He had a point.  Adrian frowned at me.  ‘Do you think you should call the vet?’

Ignoring the flashing of vets’ bills before my eyes, I called and she said ‘Do you think I should see him?’ And I resisted the urge to say, ‘Well you’re the flipping vet, what do YOU think?’  Why is it they all do this now?  Doctors say, ‘Do you think you need antibiotics?’; builders say ‘You think that big crack in your wall needs fixing?’  I mean, what happened to professionals telling you what you need to know because they have been trained, and you haven’t?  Ask the lawyers, I guess.   Or go Greek and have a referendum.

"Shit."

Anyhow, we ascertained that it might be a Good Idea for her to leave whatever she was doing (which I’m willing to bet wasn’t watching X Factor) and come on down and so Adrian wrapped the SP up in a blanket and walked down to the surgery.  Meanwhile I scrubbed.  And scrubbed.  And scrubbed.  And held my breath quite Olympically. And James got teary and I told him that no, the dog was NOT going to die. Not yet. Not on my watch. Fingers crossed behind my back in case the stupid creature had somehow ingested poison. Remembering the roll call of Dogs I Have Had and how they have, in general, all had a tendency to die.

Bill. Boxer. Killed a poodle. Rehomed. Presumably died.

Bella. Miniature dachshund.Terrified old ladies.  Run over.  Died.

Sadie. Cross-breed Border Collie. Got run over. Didn’t die. Smart dog. Kidney failure. Died.

Lizzie. Border Collie. Hip dysplasia. Died.

Reuben. Border Collie. Lived to ancient decrepitude.  Eventually died.

Monty. Boxer. Wedding gift. Love of Adrian’s life. Leukaemia. Died.

Bonnie: aka Phantom Pooper. Border collie. Bonkers. Revolting. Lived to 587 (felt longer). Wouldn’t die. Eventually put down.

Asbo. Parson Jack Russell.  Bites. Still revoltingly alive and robust. Immortalist tendencies.

SP. Beagle lookalike. Eats shit. Clearly wants to die.

And Adrian came back – with (thank feck!) the SP who had been given jabs and drugs and had the worst of the shit clipped off his backend by the vet who had, apparently, quietly yet repeatedly farted throughout the procedure. Yes, the vet, not the SP. 

So.  Now all is as it was.  Except for the lingering smell of shit and another solar plexus kick to the credit card. 

And really.  Dogs? Why?

By the way.  You have to laugh cos I’m sure this wasn’t the kind of post the dog food PR was hoping I’d write.  But you have to be honest, right?  The dog food is called (now don’t laugh)….

Yup. Laughing Dog.  Oven-baked Natural Complete.  Naturally, happy dog food. 

Honestly, I kid you not.

‘Chicken rich in vegetables, barley and oats from the farm’ No added wheat, soya or dairy products. No added artificial colours or flavours. It’s hypoallergenic, for kibble’s sake.  If Chappie is the McDonalds Big Mac of dog food, this is the health shop Tofu burger.  Honestly, ignore Adrian. It's good wholesome stuff. 

No shit.

Me, myself, I

So I was going up to London for the Stoke Newington Literary Festival. So I spoke to my oldest bestest friend Jane.
‘Um, I’m coming up to London next weekend…’  Pause.  ‘Could I?’
Pause. ‘Damn. I’m going to Istanbul.’ 
‘Oh.’  Remembered my manners quickly.  ‘How lovely.’
But really. Damn, damn, damn.
‘Never mind. I can crash somewhere else, no problem.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’ll put the keys in the post.’
Oh my.

So there I was, in London, solo, for the weekend.  It was like being in my 20s again. I had the keys to the castle - a flat of my own, albeit borrowed. 

Now, let’s get this totally in context.  This is not some cruddy old flat.  Jane’s place is tucked away down a leafy street behind Essex Road.  It’s the bottom half of a Victorian house so I suppose it’s not really a flat per se, but let’s call it that for the sake of argument (and because the word maisonette sounds unpleasant – frankly anything that ends –ette always sounds a bit dodgy and smacks of “feminine hygiene” to me, but that could just be me.) Actually I don’t like the word ‘flat’ either but…

Anyhow, this is a clean, pristine flat. It is a flat that is not covered in dog-hair; a flat that does not have partying ‘energies’ on the stairs; a flat that has nice normal rooms, not spaces that deserve labels like ‘doom’ and ‘despond’.   I walked in, kicked off my flipflops and just sighed with total utter decadent pleasure.

There were flowers.  There was a lingering scent of Jo Malone rather than the stench of stale dog sick, fetid trainers and damp.  I dumped my bag in the bedroom and threw myself onto the big wide bed with its fresh white Egyptian cotton sheets and – oh oh oh – its memory mattress.  The silence was intoxicating.

I padded upstairs into the open-plan kitchen, living room area and flung open the tall wide windows.  Sunlight streamed through and tickled my toes.  Opened the fridge and, bless her soul, Jane had left me a whole shelf of veggie heaven (falafel, dolmades, halloumi, veg curry, various types of tofu).  Smoked tofu with almonds and wild garlic? Basil tofu? Seriously? 

Jane has the soundtrack of our shared past pretty well covered and so pretty soon I was trying to decide between The Cure, Bruce or Kate Bush. Shuddered a little over David Cassidy (no, I never did, nor Donny Osmond FFS); The Specials (did, but only live – they were cracking live); The Smiths (don’t get me started). 

Now don’t get me wrong.  I love my family, I really do, and I even have a sneaking softness for the Bonkers House. I do love Dulverton too.  But, but, but…sometimes it’s just lovely to be me.  Just me.  Not a mother, not a wife, not someone trying to juggle a gazillion balls at once.  No responsibility. Nobody to please. Nothing that has to be done.  A holiday from life, from reality.  You know what I mean, don’t you?  If you don’t, I’ll take it you don’t have children – or are male.

So I put the music up high. Had a long hot shower (without anyone yelling that they needed this or had I seen that?). I did my tarot.- and, frankly, didn't believe it.  Made a pot of coffee. Stretched out on the sofa, wiggled my toes and just sighed with pleasure. 

Solange Noir

Let me introduce you to Solange Noir.  Soli. Sigh.  A fully-signed up member on this madcap Journey.  Found behaving blissfully badly on Twitter.  How?  Hmm, was it via Sessha Batto or Frankie Sachs (I’ll introduce you to these two properly at a later date)?  Anyhow, whatever.  She’s always worth talking to – funny, responsive, kind, wickedly naughty, real.  Here's how she describes herself: photographer, documentary film producer, poet, hula hooper, cat worshipper and sake pusher.
I'd add madly talented to the list: I am officially in love with her images. 

She doesn’t ‘take pictures’ btw; she lets her camera ‘give’ her pictures – I like that distinction, don’t you?  She calls her work/play ‘optical telepathy’ using it "to stop time, to trap shadows, to reveal hidden things." 

A blank-faced knight stands guard by a stairwell, silent amidst acid bright. Would you dare ascend? Would you risk the creak of dark armour?

The everyday is made otherworldly.  A girl stands, her back to us, staring down a corridor of scaffolding.  A dark shape waits.  Dog?  Beast?  Monster? We tell the story we hold in our own hearts and minds.  Nobody else's. Nobody else is.

Guardian. A psyche-delish sky –  burning trees branching ganglia into sky blue. Stone Bast, haunched on orange spine.  Pet-rified. 

Worlds reflected. Glance into the gutter and see sky revealed – clouds and space in a sea-puddle.  What is beauty?  Where is beauty? 

A crack in the pavement becomes a threshold; a manhole a portal. Liminal places. Litoral spaces. Without walls as interstices.  The blurring inbetween places. Where elements uneasily meet. 

Time is liminal too.  The precipice – the moment before stepping into the void, sun-induced vertigo. A coat left on railings.

Shadows walk the streets.  People march brashly from or into fairytale, from nightmares, from hinterworlds without passports.  Assaults of colour in a world bleached monochrome.  Shrieks of edible E-number buildings.  Fade to grey.

Colour.  Light transmitted or reflected; wavelengths.  Interest, variety, intensity.  An outward appearance that may be deliberately misleading.  To modify, deceive or distort; to affect in thought or feeling. The characteristic of quarks; the timbre of sound.

See, this is why I sometimes despair of words.  All that verbiage and you probably haven’t a clue what I’m on about.  Yet in one nanosecond an image can say all that – and more, far more. Because everyone sees differently.

You can buy prints of her images... And, damnit, she writes a blog too... wittynoodles.blogspot.com  and she’s producing a film on Gothdom.  Take some time to make her acquaintance.  While you do, some music, I think...a brace of tunes that popped up and demanded to join this post. J

Forgot to say, all the images on this post belong to Soli and are reproduced here with her kind permission.