got to be a story in this

It went very well! Nobody messed up any lines, the audience laughed in all the right places (even the jokes which seemed a bit feeble in the script got a laugh when delivered), and there was applause between scenes, which none of us were expecting. Such a huge buzz, much better than writing. And the theatre was lovely - was expecting plastic seats and village hall, but it was a proper theatre with curtains and rows of red velvet flip-up seats and a dressing room with lightbulbs set into the mirrors. And the play on there next week is about to go to the West End, so respect by association. And actually, I had to dress up as a man, most disconcerting.

It is obviously something to do with the way a dog's eyes are positioned and the design of the bridge that creates an optical illusion whereby the dog thinks it isn't as high as it is.... Or maybe someone tied a steak to the side of the bridge. This is my attempt at the wrting excerise "woof, woof, woof...why did my love leave me? Howl, bark...the agony, I wish I had never been born or I was drowned as a pup, growl. I can't take any more...woof. Goodbye cruel world"

I think it was the wicked Jim Bones of the Doggie Temple who warned that dog licences and compulsory neutering were about to be introduced, and got his followers to suicide by promising three-legged cats who couldn't run and bitches who never went off heat, just across the Great Divide ...

The Cat's Whiskers Once upon time there was a wonderful dream that smelt of sausages and old socks and the corner of the curtains where the cat scratched in early evening. In the dream there was a giant chess board with life-sized pieces, all in the shape of the cat, and a sliver of back bacon tucked into each felt base, and pawns wearing butcher's aprons stained with blood. There was dancing, in the dream, and running into the distance, out of sight, and there were weeds in the lake and water in my ears; and laughing, like the jumps in old 45s when the neighbours argue about money and how many days it has been since they had sex. That cat, Fluff, was kissing me in my dirty paws and I howled at the moon, but purred. I was a dog, but a cat. A Dat. A Cog. When I woke up Fluff was smiling at me from the other side of the room. He was swishing his tail in a beguiling manner - I've always been a sucker for a coiled tail and a cocked paw - and was staring at me like he knew what I was dreaming. I hoped I hadn't wiggled in my sleep, or put my arse in the air, like I usually did, or - God-help-me - done that eye flickering zombie air-running that always gets a laugh and makes me feel like a clumsy, inelegant, mongrel. The thing that was the same in the dream as when I woke up was the smell of sausages. The thing that was different was that Fluff. In my dream Fluff had been kissing my paws, had smiled at me, as though I was a perfect pedigree, as though he was in love. When I woke up he was smug and laughing, and I knew I could never have him. Oh Fluff. When the dream is better than the waking, when the sleep is better than awake, there is only one thing to do. Raffael, the neighbour's poodle, will know what to do, where I should go. The smell of the curtain flicked under my chin. Fluff licked his paws. I would ask Raffael about the bridge, the place I could sink into weeds.

I didn't know you could 'act' Emily?

my answer the question why that bridge, then, in short form, is that the poodle told them to. Poodles, rather than just being for show, actually have very strong powers of persuasion.

Andrew - on stage???? *shocked* - what exhibitionism!!!!

You know, I think I once made a solemn oath that I would never write a story from the point of view of a dog. I've got no principles left.

You can get pringos for 2 at the prices of one at Tesco's fergal.

Will you be dressing up as a girl, Emily ? That's the best bit about am dram... I'll be playing a Japanese geisha girl in the Come-to-Piddle Am Dram Society's new writers night in May..... (a Japanese waitress with a very ample bosom, I might add...)

Fergal, I like your dream. It feels familiar. I have nine cats and have always identified with them. I used to have dreams where I would try and ring the bell on a door, but couldn't reach and the raised hand was a paw, or going in a bus I couldn't reach up high enough to get a ticket from the driver. And people around me would be pairs of legs. I would even wash myself like a cat. While I was pregnant of my daughter I dreamt of giving birth to kittens, and once, when there was a naked baby between them, I cried with dread. Since I had my child those dreams have left me. I had to come clean. Feline or human. In stead of being a cat, I have surrounded myself with them. Rooms full of purring cats. Bliss. milkstone

thanks milkstone... just want to make clear my 'dream' was from POV of a identity stricken and lovelorn dog. *coughs*. If it was my dream I would have a serious problem (wanting a cat to fall in love with me!) ' I always said I would never write a story which had the twist at the end that the narrator was a dog or a garden gnome, because so many stories in women's mags seem to think that constitues a satisfactory ending (it doesn't). I am a cat and dog fan having grown up with both, but don't have either because I live in a flat above a chip shop. My boyfriend is alergic to cats and the other night I actually did have a dream about a cat jumping at my face and my boyfriend woke me up to say, 'You are screaming about a cat biting your face.' I sort of went off them after that.

right my idea is that a cat took over all the dogs minds right and it is slowly pursading the dogs to comit suicude thats spelt wrong or this is a mind of a dog "umm ... life is cruel no one loves me i have to go to the theropisted for stress of being dog right how high is it oh thats high here we go... "

Rover always found the bridge disturbing. Between the towpath and the small park it was not a bad bridge; there were interesting smells on the towpath and in the park, large spaces to run about in. No matter which direction you crossed the bridge, there was something good on the other side. He sniffed but there were no marks on the bridge, no dog had ever claimed it as their own, no dog had ever left a message for another. The bridge smelled of iron, and paint, and canal water. It was as if he were the first canine to ever cross it. Rover cocked a leg to leave his own mark but could not urinate. Something was wrong, his fur stood on end and his ears lay flat back against his skull. He wined and barked at the man but the man took no notice, he had stopped to enjoy something in the sun setting over the canal that Rover could not understand. Then Rover saw it, in the very shape of the bridge, the ark like the ark of a tennis ball, the ironwork at the foot like a man in the act of throwing the ball, the twisted tree stump at the other foot like a dog catching it. The bridge was a message, was a heiroglyph even a dog could read. Rover understood it and understood its meaning. The meaning that he had subconsciously realised long before. He looked again at the man, was it true, could it be true, he barked and wined again, daring the man to deny it, but the man did not. He looked at the bridge. It was all there, the tennis ball thrown, the dog collects. He was a pet, a funny furry object to be enjoyed and laughed at. He was second class, sub human, animal. All these years he had loved the man and for what, to be nothing more than a toy. He was not equal with the man, would never be equal with the man. Rover knew he could not live with the knowledge. Rover slipped his lead and jumped.