Poodle rockin'

I have just uploaded the Gorky's song Poodle rockin' to my mobile, so whenever my dog phone rings I am treated to a cacophony of tuneful barking. Better than what I had before - the theme to Dog Tanian and the Three Muskahounds.
I have a new client, a poodle. She is very cute, and sports a fun-sized black perm, a little shaggy, which her owner informs me is the 'puppy cut.' Ahh. She is a bouncy eight months old. I like when the dogs are happy in their hair. I was walking a dog the other weekend who had just been for the snip (I mean a hair cut) and seemed all the chirpier for it. More mobile, and far lighter, he scampered around with a new lease of life.
In America, the poodle became so unpopular in the 1920s it almost died out - can you imagine a poodle-parlour free world? Yet the poodle was originally a tough, butch breed, a water dog renowned for its duck hunting skills, without a bow in sight. The name is from the German for puddle (pfudel), and those little puffs of fancily trimmed fur at ankle and tail, as well as the No. 1 close shave on the upper thighs were first of all practical - designed for protection and mobility when hunting and swimming.
Yet Brand Poodle was relaunched in France - retiring their oh-so 16th Century practical dog tags for coiffed treeses, sculpted locks and multicoloured fur coats, more elaborate than their owners. They went on to become the ultimate fashion accessory for the French aristocracy in the 17th and 18th Century.
Come into the 2000s and it seems the Poodle needs another rebrand, to shed this silly skin and back away from the stigma of the silly haircuts. It's not going too well. Take one random poodle story. Best of Breed winner at last year's Welsh Kennel Club show, La Marka Lemerle Oscar Wilde (ahem). Disqualified after being found wearing hairspray. It's an illegal substance now - banned by the Kennel Club. The equivalent of steroids for canines. In the past, dog owners used to do all sorts to preen their pooches prior to ringside performance - add chalk, hair mousse or shine, but alas! no longer! So, Wilde's owner is screaming sabotage! He said: "I'm not saying there wasn't hairspray on my dog, but I didn't put it there."
So, we are left with a mystery on our paws, who was the elusive hairspraying menace - and when will he strike again? Perhaps it was another dog.
I wouldn't happen in a class of Bulldogs.

Filming Walk My Dog!

I was called about filming Walk My Dog by a Croatian journalist. Ivanka called me to ask if she could feature Walk My Dog as her main news story, since they don't have pet sitters or dog walkers in Croatia and hopes to use it for her TV station when she returns. She is doing a short week-long course at Cardiff's Thomson Institute, a media charity training students how to use cameras to make their own stories.
I was happy to help, and we had some rainy fun trying to keep the dogs from sniffing, then knocking over the camera equipment! One of the dogs would keep going up to the lens to have a closer look, then leaving minute droplets of water over it! I didn't realise how long it took just to get a few minutes of good footage.
Clearly I am no wannabe film star, although I suspect the dogs were Hollywood hopefuls - playing up to the camera. I spent about twenty minutes (or so it seemed to my aching arm and the dogs' delight) throwing a stick in slow motion, and put on my waterproofs three times, by which time it had almost stopped raining.
The mud was omnipresent though, so I am sure it all looked quite unpleasant on film. As usual Maple was doing her best to find the deepest pools of mud to wade through, she managed to coat her head in a muddy wash of water before it was time to go back, and was that a deliberately mischevious look she gave me after the initial plunge? I am sure she does not do this when she is with her owner! I'll post the link to the footage when I get it in the right format. If I get 2 and a half minutes of fame does that count for my 15 minutes, or do I get another 12.5 on top of that? What happens if it is shown repeatedly on Croatian tv - does it all add up? I shall wait see.

More mud!

Out in the countryside this morning for an hour-long mud fest through woods, up hills, and over fields with an impossibly small dog. Cyril needs the exercise. He doesn't get many outings, and as a consequence his belly has grown to meet the ground - his fur dragging on the ground, picking up small twigs and debris as he travels. He badly needs this walk and almost gagged with glee at the prospect of the open path after just a few metres of freedom. Far more exciting than the garden!
It was not raining so I didn't use waterproofs or wellies, but five minutes later both dog and I were ankle deep and stomach deep respectively - in gloopy mud. But I didn't have bits of bramble stuck in my chest fur, so I think I came off better than the dog in the end.
Cyril is mostly a house dog, as stout as he is small and in need of a manicure - so we spent half the time on the pavements. He bounces along, compensating for his stunted stature by well planned hops, leaps and bounds, executed with panache and a wag of the tail. A fat black and tan sausage, he wiggles over larger logs and slides his belly over any other obstacles, he doesn’t like deeper puddles, and like a girl in sinking stilettos, paces round them tentatively. Perhaps he can't swim!
I know when he's all walked out when I see his tongue lolling and he starts to trail a little - and he no longer trips me up weaving round my legs!