So, this is it. The final Salient column of the year. Well, I mean presumably there could be another Salient column, but not by me. I’m sorry, but I am not in charge or even capable of designing this magazine, there are reasons, strange and disturbing reasons why I am not the designer for Salient, and that lack of competency is one of them. So, I apologise profusely if this isn’t actually the last column in Salient this week. It’s just not my fault, people.

Over the course of the year, I keep getting told stuff by randoms who hope that I, in my position as a high-status Salient volunteer can pass on the real truths to the nation. Well, why not give them a go?

I’m a student journalist, after all:
Peter Jackson is a scientologist. At least that’s what Graham, this guy sitting on the bus next to me, said. He reckons that Jackson’s funding a big Scientology branch to be opened in the space where Dymocks once was. Tom Cruise’s recent hugging of Jackson adds more credence to this, he says. As someone who can not see why a famous director and famous actor could possibly have dealings with each other on a professional level I support this random drunken psycho who insists on telling me things. Apparently his brother has foetal alcohol poisoning. Graham’s brother, not Jackson’s. I’m not entirely sure Peter Jackson has any other family members, excluding those hobbit kids Bill and Kate, and Fran Walsh.

An anonymous political science and psychology student claimed that many students who have not encountered Victoria University Vice-Chancellor Pat Walsh automatically associate the man with zombies. According to the legend, whenever it is even slightly foggy, and all you can hear is the sultry sound of a first year throwing up her 12% Woodstock premixes, Pat Walsh is (supposedly) there: waiting to grind his teeth into the skull of her delicious Taranakian flesh. I’m not sure if this statistic is true, but it sounds true, and that’s good enough for me. I must admit that I also held this notion until the first time I met the man. Now I consider him more like a tomb lich, what with his pale skin and long delicate fingers, probing and testing the air in front of him for the ichor of the student soul. It’s what sustains him; that and research funding.

I also heard that it’s likely that bunch of classes are going to be unofficially capped next year, so if you want to actually get into that interesting 100-level religious studies course, or flip your major from a daddy pleasing double degree in sociology/bio chemistry into a film/theatre combined major, you should apply for your classes as soon as possible. Stop reading this and apply now, there are way too many recession-hit adult students and annoying teenagers coming in for the university to cater for everybody. Conspiracy? Probably, unless it’s like actual policy.

Okay, so this ex-student politician that used to live around the corner kept telling me things like Jasmine Freemantle spends a lot of time in her office “alone” with “people.” Not even, bro; if she’s in her office with another person then she isn’t alone, as there is another person right next to her. She might be alone in her “office”, like when people talk about John Key being in the office of Prime Minister at all times, even when he’s eating a McFlurry and crying because his Irish wife thinks he’s getting pudgy (he’s not, by the way. He looks great.), but then she’s only existentially alone and everybody knows that existentialism as a philosophy just isn’t relevant to “the real world”, which is the world everybody but students live in; just ask John Key’s wife, Bronagh. I couldn’t as I don’t have access to her email. Lame, eh?

So, yeah, that’s the calibre of special information I was privy to as a Salienteer. God I love being a journalist.

Next year is Twenty Ten. It’s literally the future. Take advantage of it, see cool theatre, rock the Fringe Festival, laugh at the comedy fest and finish up your double degree in Classics and Film Studies. It’s not going to be useful, but it’ll be fun.

Good night everybody!
—Sando. thesando.com

Impro Melbourne Presents Mr. Fish And His Spooky Library Of The Improv Macabre

This hour-long show’s central conceit of Mr. Fish (Derek Flores), inviting you into his house for spooky tales was a great way to lead us through four scary improvised stories. Infused with the spookyness of a live cello, each story was told in a different manner, ranging from hand puppetry to a very naturalistic story about a man who journeys from Russia to meet his mother.

It was also genuienly fun to just watch such a coherant show being created in front of us. Flores’ companions Patti Stiles and Rama Nicholas, both from the venerable Impro Melbourne, were not perfectly in synch with each other and very competent at creating both laughter and chills. There were occasional hiccups, like a muddling of relationships in what became the Russian Mother story, but for the most part the show’s flow was quick, precise and didn’t have any splashback.

I am not an improvisational newbie, yet I only rarely encounter improv that isn’t being used to create something that is just middle-of-the-road family fun, which of course is exactly how I became interested in improvisation in the first place. So in no way am I saying that family chuckle time is a bad thing, but I was ecstatic to encounter such a fresh show. I watched my partner, who completely turned her nose up at Binge Culture’s Animal Hour, have her eyes opened to the possibility of “artsy theatre that can actually be good.” All in all, I felt both beauty and terror while watching this show, and that’s the definition of the sublime.

The Con Artists Present Bite Me: Fangprov

The Con Artists are one of New Zealand’s most respected and oldest troupes, and their Jane Austen-themed improvisational musical was a highlight for many people last year. So when they came down to present Fangprov, an improvised vampire themed musical, I was completely ready to be sucked in. Yes, it was very funny, but I wasn’t blown away by the show.

The problem wasn’t their improvisation, because the troupe worked together well and Penny Ashton’s characters especially were quite watchable. I just don’t understand why they decided to stage the production as a musical. None of the cast really had the singing chops to front a musical piece, and Robbie Ellis, who is quite a musical genius, had to sit there grinding out hook after musical hook that the cast rarely latched onto, so the actual numbers were thinly spread out.

I enjoyed the actual narrative of a small American town overrun by a family of vampires, and Stayci Taylor did a grand job of anchoring the tale with her hairdresser character. Though, the usually fabulous Clare Kelso was left out of the action for most of the show. However, as this was just how the show was improvised, that was just a minor disappointment, not a major problem for a piece of theatre.

So Fangprov was pretty good, just not amazing. The problem with improv is that while the story will change the format can largely stay the same, and they need to rethink the musical genre for that cast, as when they played to their strengths it was a bunch of family fun.

Thursday 8 October. Bats (The Scary Night).

The chief concept and magic of the Wishing Tree is this: As the audience enters the theatre, they are each asked to write a wish on a little tag and tie it, with red string, to a small tree. Eventually the tree is wreathed in these wishes, like a swan plant covered in butterfly pupae – heavy with potential beauty. Later the tree is bought to the stage, where the improvisers each select a wish, and use them to launch the night’s tales. After each story has reached a conclusion the improviser that had introduced that wish stands to one side and rips the tag into pieces- scattering it and the story into the air. It’s all very moving.

As a conceit the tree is a very enticing way to solicit audience suggestions instead of ask-fors, and the tree was an excellent visual device, standing on the stage as a performer in it’s own right: a surrogate for the audience’s usual interaction with improvisers.

Some wishes are simply fulfilled, like a woman who leaves her job to row the Greek isles. Others take “be careful what you wish for” and move to create serious pieces of drama. One instance of this was the rather frivolous wish “I wish he’d fuck like a rabbit” which led to a pathos filled story anchored by Nicholas and Derek Flores, about a man who almost destroys his relationship by constantly cheating on Nicholas.

It was refreshing to encounter a long form game that wasn’t a spin off of Del Close’s 1967 creation, The Harold, as unlike Harold based long form games, each story didn’t twin and twine with each other. Instead the scenes and stories were left to burst or simmer for as long as they needed, without heed to the energies of their sibling stories. The scattered nature of the stories also allowed the more unconventional narrativistic elements of straight story telling and the framing device of paper ripping room and performative status enough to control what could, in the hands of poorer performers, become a student theatre style mess.

The performers who took part in the Wishing Tree spent a couple of days with Nicholas workshopping in the format, so hopefully the Tree or forms based upon the Tree will spread through out New Zealand’s improv troupes sooner rather than later. Already Wellington Improv Troupe has announced that they will be performing their own season of Wishing Trees in December, so if this sounds of interest you must go and experience the show for yourself.

The Wishing Tree was part of the New Zealand Improv Festival 2009, presented on Friday 9th Of October at Bats Theatre.

-Nic Sando

The nuts and bolts of Christchurch improv troupe the Court Jesters show Off the Map are this: It was a long form piece based around a small New Zealand town (Friendly Springs) and the characters that lived in it. Story strands involving different characters comfortably interwove into a town shaking conclusion involving a flaccid clock being used to save a family from a giant cabbage.

What I really enjoyed about watching the Court Jesters at work, was how quickly they could snap between scenes. To transition, an improviser would literally run onto the stage, calling an end to a scene merely by his presence, the other improvisers would immediately vacate the stage unless they were grabbed by the new improviser.

I know this doesn’t sound like much of an innovation, but the conceits speed and cleanliness was at odds to the often muddied change overs that I see in most improvisation. A high stakes manoeuvre to be sure, I felt that the transition could only work because the troupe itself had such an implicit trust with each other that could only come from a large volume of quality play time together.

As for the actual interaction of the troupe, they were both very real and very amusing. While there were gags for gags sake, the world the Jesters formed was one of solid characters and relationships, who while inherently amusing (a fry cook/part time stripper who’s in love with a 75 year old man), surprisingly managed to touch me in my emotional special area. Part of this had to come from the precision that the Jesters assumed their characters. Javier Jarquin was especially effective at this with both a one note gay poet character who bloomed into an emotion fulcrum in a story about domestic abuse, and a clock tower worker who forces his father into happiness.

That’s right, the Court Jesters, managed to take domestic violence and work it into a funny story that didn’t mock the horror of that situation. This was a very successful show by a really tight troupe.

The Court Jesters Present Off The Map was part of the New Zealand Improv Festival 2009, presented on Friday 9th Of October at Bats Theatre.

The problem wasn’t their improvisation, because the troupe worked together well and Penny Ashton’s characters especially were quite watchable. I just don’t understand why they decided to stage the production as a musical. None of the cast really had the singing chops to front a musical piece, and Robbie Ellis, who is quite a musical genius, had to sit there grinding out hook after musical hook that the cast rarely latched onto, so the actual numbers were thinly spread out.

I enjoyed the actual narrative of a small American town over run by a family of vampires, and Stayci Taylor did a grand job of anchoring the tale with her hair dresser character. Though, the usually fabulous Clare Kelso was left out of the action for most of the show. However, as this was just how the show was improvised, that was just a minor disappointment, not a major problem for a piece of theatre.

So Fangprov was pretty good just not amazing, the problem with improv is though, that while the story will change the format can largely stay the same, and they need to rethink the musical genre for that cast as when they played to their strengths it was a bunch of family fun.

The Con Artists Present Bite Me: Fangprov was part of the New Zealaand Improv Festival 2009, presented on Thursday 8th Of October at Bats Theatre.

-Nic Sando

It was also genuinely fun to just watch such a coherent show being created in front of us. Flores’ companions Patti Stiles and Rama Nicholas, both from the venerable Impro Melbourne were in synch with each other and very competent at creating both laughter and chills. There were occasional hiccups, like a muddling of relationships in what became the Russian Mother story, but for the most part the shows’ flow was quick, precise and didn’t have any splash back.

I am not a improvisational newbie, yet it I only rarely encounter improv that isn’t being used to create something that is just middle of the road family fun. Of course that’s exactly how I became interested in improvisation in the first place, so in no way am I saying that family chuckle time is a bad thing, but I was rather pleased (aka ecstatic) to encounter such a fresh show. I watched my partner, who completely turned her nose up at Binge Culture’s Animal Hour have her eyes opened to the possibility of “artsy theatre that can actually be good.” All in all, I felt both beauty and terror while watching this show, and that’s the definition of the sublime.

Mr. Fish And His Spooky Library Of The Improv Macabre was part of the New Zealand Improv Festival 2009, presented on Thursday 8th Of October at Bats Theatre.

-Nic Sando

Edited for poor grammar by Sando @ 0011hrs 11/10/09

I’m sick of being some columnist with no respect from the ladies or the laddies or the ladles. So from now on I am a hard-nosed investigative journalist, investigating stuff, okay? Okay, good. Here goes.

SHOWER GATE

New Zealand’s John Key visited New York city last week. As you may or may not be aware his hotel had it [insert possessive apostrophe here] s water cut off, possibly because of refusing to pay the water bill. Unable to shower because of the sad state of his New York hotel, Mr Key had to walk, on foot, disguised as a regular bloke, in jeans and a t-shirt, to the Australian Embassy. While there he begged access to the shower. Sources report that it was hot, and at 142 degrees Fahrenheit AKA 61°C, they would be accurate. As a newspaper journalist man it would be improper to speculate upon what the most powerful political entity of New Zealand did in his shower. However, officials reported that it was pretty hot also—and rather quick. Which was a good thing, as many more people, including the Foreign Minister of New Zealand Murray McCully, were awaiting use of said shower. While Mr McCully’s shower wasn’t as well received, though it was noted that even he is not as attractive as Mr Key, he has very expressive eyebrows, and “What a voice! Am I right ladies‽” Yes.

Kiwi political analysts investigating Shower Gate believe it stepped up the relationship of New Zealand/Australia, as Mr Key was invited to keep a disposable head for the Australian Primeministorial mechanical toothbrush. Provided it was the blue one—Kevin likes the pink ones. Looking further afield, it was observed that noted communist Joseph Stalin did not bathe. So, by showering Mr Key sent a definite message of contempt towards the remaining communist countries like Cuba and supposedly China. Also, he smells refreshingly of Head & Shoulders, and Rexona for men. Yummy.

LOCAL MAN UNIMPRESSED

“I don’t care what they said at the door, those statues are plaster of paris. You can tell, because of the grainy whiteness.” Shane Holland should know because his mate Dave is a plasterer. Dave mainly does that 3-dimensional bird shit spackling effect you see on weather board houses in the burbs.

Holland intentionally missed the Terracotta Warriors exhibition—housed in Wellington last Summer—as he considered it unlikely at best the Chinese government would let the real terracotta warriors out of the country “because that shit’s fragile”. Holland decided to travel to China so as to see the other ones.

“You know what mate? There were a whole bunch of ‘em there.

“You know, I thought to myself, if I were to wander down Terracotta Street or whatever it’s called, there’ll be a billion copies of those statues, all better looking than the dudes at the Saint James. I mean, the proportions are all totally fucked,” he said.

Holland is right.

There are many replica souvenir stands surrounding China’s greatest archeological site—the Tomb of the First Qin Emperor, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. After confronting the English language tour personnel at the tomb he declared: “If they ain’t plaster then they look like they’re made out of fucking mud.”

As of today the Chinese are still reluctant to refund his admission fee to the site.

See, two stories down. I’m this close to being Judy Bailey. And I want to be her. She has great bone structure. Such great, great bone structure. One time I met her, it was awesome. (JOURNALISM FOR THE WIN)

A couple of weeks back my lover Julian and I ordered a free sample pack of Eat Me’s (eatme.net.nz) 100% Whey and 100% Isolate protein powder. You mix the powder with water or milk to create a protein shake and then drink it. We went about trialing these products. This a story about us doing that thing.

PRO TEENS

As a nerd and gym culture novice, I knew very little about the world of protein supplements, but was ever so eager to approach the subject with all the cynicism and university database access that I could muster.

Protein powders are nutritional supplements which provide a large amount of protein with a small amount of carbohydrates and fat. Often including amino acids as well, they are consumed or “eaten” before and after a work out. Via the use of these powders as well as their regular well balanced diet a body builder/gym rat/exercise fanatic gives their body more access to the base chemicals used to bulk up with muscle. The idea is that your body needs to be digesting protein during and right after exercise for speedy and efficient muscle repair. To lay some street science down on your ass, your muscles are made of protein so you need to eat protein.

The problem is that there is no scientific reason to believe that you need to eat more than an average amount of protein to see muscle building gains, and a typical meat-eating student will get that amount through the course of an average day. To be honest, the average person may consume well over the amount needed. There is a lot of peer testimony and large chunks of gym culture built up around the consumption of extra protein however, and as an open-minded man I decided to humour Julian the obsessive gym rat.

Comparing EatMe’s whey protein and protein isolate formulas to other ones commonly found at the supermarket and sports stores, I noticed that EatMe’s product is not only quite cheap comparatively, but is also one of the more protein-filled protein supplements on the market, with their 100% whey being about 80% protein. Using my Sando sense, I realised that protein packedness is the most important thing when it comes to these supplements, and so think that’s a good thing.

THE TESTS–MUSCLE BUILDING

Objectively, I knew that there would be no noticeable muscle gain from just a week of exercising and eating the free samples, because the time frame was too short. But emotionally speaking, and I am an emotionally competent person, I should feel myself buffing up. That’s ‘feel’ as in ‘emotionally sense’, not ‘feel’ as in the tactile sensation. This is confusing as being more toned, denser and less gelatinous would be things that you should be able to touch. Mang, emotional intelligence is a complex beast.

So before we started up, my muscle mass was calculated as a turgid yet inquisitive level on the old emotional odometer, but by the time I had finished my week of shakes and free weights, I had increased to a quiet yet assured optimism. Thanks Emotional Intelligence, you’re a valid avenue of inquiry after all; my dad was so wrong!

TASTE TEST

For the taste test itself, we would just compare the 100% whey powder, as I misplaced my sachets of isolate. (The current theory on their whereabouts is that my flatmate’s polydactyl cat has stolen them for use in a dirty bomb.)

I decided to let Julian consume his any way he wanted, while I would take a little ice and water with my protein, blending with my mixing wand to create a smoothy. From past experience, these supplement shakes have a tendency to clump up, so the mechanical blend ensured a fresh thick and creamy texture that wouldn’t mess with the flavour too much.

Taste Test of EatMe’s 100% Whey product:

Cheeky Chocolate Whey

JULIAN: The chocolate one was gross. Maybe it was off? Or something, I hope it was off.
NIC: Actually, this does have a kind of rank slickness to it… it tastes like really, really, old Easter chocolate.

Voracious Vanilla

JULIAN: The vanilla one was fine, eerily much like Up and Go in fact.
NIC: It’s really creamy, which is surprising for something that is only remotely milk. It doesn’t just taste like vanilla essence and sugar either.

Sexy Strawberry

JULIAN: I still taste the chocolate one man. It’s inside me, growing like my baby. He wipes his tongue with a dish towel.
NIC: Wow, this is actually better than most strawberry milkshakes I’ve tried. Take that, New Zealand’s dairies!

HERE’S WHERE I SUM UP MOST OF EVERYTHING

I can’t justify a belief in the claims that gym culture and the supplements industry make about needing extra protein, which is sad because I enjoyed the EatMe 100% whey range. So much so, that I am considering buying some of their vanilla or strawberry protein powder to use as a basis for a low calorie shake. While protein may not be super amazing, it’s still less damaging than a Wendy’s super shake… Unless the link between excessive protein consumption and kidney failure is proven. Which it isn’t!
The EatMe people say that they have a student discount, so if you, like Julian, are a true believer, give it a go—the stuff works out quite a lot cheaper than many ‘supermarket brands’ and excluding the chocolate, actually tastes quite nice.

Through out my university life I have furiously masterba… Wait, no! I promised a Salient column that wasn’t about some sort of psychological problem stemming from some sort of attraction to my step-sister Jay. Oh god, that early childhood educator is just so hot! My cousin who was raised kind of like my brother dates my other step sister, so it’s okay to harbour these secret fee… NO! NO! NO! Umm. Anyways, Throughout my university life, I have furiously promised myself that one day, before I left varsity I would manage somehow to either scrimp and save or just blow heaps of people for long enough to be able to afford a pair of Doc Martens. I fucking love those shoes.

SOME AWKWARD CRUSHES I HAVE HAD

• The Sun Maid Raisin Packet Lady
• The Ultimate Warrior
• The teacher who had an affair with my primary school principal
• Jasmine Freemantle
• Shahir, my very first film tutor

Doc Martens, like most good things, came from a Nazi. It’s okay though, the Nazi in question wasn’t a Jew killer or even a Pole killer, though he may have hated us queers. You see, Doctor Märtens was a really terrible skier, so while his country was at war, he was on the slopes, having himself a great time. Then he died. Well, he didn’t ‘die’ die, but he fell over and hurt his foot, and then he had the gall to be too prissy to wear regular German Infantry boots with his sore leg hand.

Obviously, he didn’t realise the Germans had invented methadone in the years before his fall, or he wouldn’t have created his distinctive soles that are just awash with air-cushioning comfort. So, thank you Doctor Märtens for being to medically incompetent. Oh, or pethidine could have worked too, you know, hey, give it to women in labour, the Nazis invented that too. Pethidine, not procreation.

SOME OTHER AWESOME SHIT NAZI GERMANY CAME UP WITH

• Manned rocket flight
• Fanta
• Rotary engine
• Magnetic tape
• Romantic love
• Methamphetamine

So, finally I managed to get my sausage-like fingers wrapped around a pair—slowly choking the life out of them. As soon as they were broken in my corpulent feet would be kings strutting the courts, saying “Hey, fuck you peasants. Go mill some wheat.” My Docs, well, they really are a beautiful mash up between business shoes and the boots I fantasised about from age 18. Glorious in shining black leather they be. Argh. I look like I could be a Proletarian minister awkwardly trying to fit in with the cool teens at his youth group. Or, like a skinhead who has realised that if he doesn’t get an office job soon he’s one facial tattoo away from being a criminal offence in Whanganui.
These magnificent shoes cost enough that I can’t afford to buy another pair any time soon, and are too impractical for me to wear anywhere or to anything. I make the best purchasing decisions with my money.

BOOKS ABOUT WHALES

• Moby Richard
• Dear Fatty
• Whales and Dolphins of the World
• Leviathan
• Wales (Lonely Planet Country Guide)

The woman who sold my Dr Martens to me said I should be careful not to throw up on them, as while acid won’t damage my kick-ass soles, they will seriously fuck the buff on my polish. As her hollow eyes sent me the message that she knew this from a painful personal experience, I vowed to myself to give up my bulimic habits, at least while fully dressed. Oh god, why do I binge? Oh Shahir! I miss you more than Britain misses the Dr Martens manufacturing plant that has been moved to China.

THE END

I just realised the other day that justice isn’t actually decided by the cosmos, the Flying Spaghetti Monster or some magic man. I’ve known for years that there really isn’t anything in our heads that we didn’t put there ourselves, but I never really wanted to accept that justice was as man-made as the one-eyed Santa Bear that I used to carry around as a snuggling device. He was cuddle-filled and fuzzy. The only justice that we are able to access comes from what we as a social group have decided we can afford to mete out. And that’s the best we can hope for without taking matters into our own hands. I, like many of you, watch those stories of the little guys managing to tough it out and make a difference against the government or big business. So, I decided to be like the people of Minamata, Kumamoto, who suffered from large-scale mercury poisoning caused by big business and fight the power.

Every single pair of pants that I have bought from Farmers has died really quickly after being subjected to what I like to call “wearing.” I am now quite adept at using my clumsy sewing skills to find a way to keep wearing them. Crotch seams, new buttons, that thing where you kinda sorta repair zipper… You name it, I’ve got a pair of pants where I’ve botched the job and now use safety pins to keep myself from spewing out the sides like a beige wave of gelatine. Thanks to the poor quality goods that Farmers keeps supplying me, I decided this year to boycott the only chain store whose clothing I could afford. Well, I suppose I could head out to K-mart, but really, that’s in Porirua, and Porirua isn’t a place for arrogant hipsters, no matter how plus-sized they be.

So, like many a lone warrior, fighting evil in the night I got cold, but I staved off the violent winds and shocking rains. I managed to get through a couple of months before my birthday hit and beloved family members gave me Farmers vouchers. These free clothing vouchers and the fact that it was desperately cold and damp caused me to re-evaluate my one-man protest of Farmers. I’d given it my all for seven harrowing months, and gallingly the chain was still in business. Even more gallingly, my partner had accepted that I had made the decision to let my clothes rot into me. Further and fully engorged gallment came from the fact that no one even comprehended my epic struggle against big business… “Dude, just take the receipt in and get a replacement pair of pants,” was the comment du jour, when mentioning my pet hate. Well, Alexander Rodgers of Kelburn, maybe I don’t like keeping receipts against the chance of something going awry with my purchases. Ever think about that?

Fuck no, of course you didn’t.

Individual people can not change the world. No one man truly make sa difference. Well, some individual people can, because they have leverage with institutions like mega corporations, governments and creepy religious orders. But they are few and far between. Did you know about Farmers boycott ’09? No, because I am not the Pope. Ultimately I gave up my principles and was rewarded for doing so, and if it is convenient for you to do so you should too. There ain’t no justice.

I like making myself sad, it helps me prove to myself that I can still feel. A girl taught me about that and the pleasant feelings of pain when I was in high school. She was a lovely person, who is gone now. Well, she’s in America with her girlfriend and a billion piercings, but I still think of her fondly.

One of the ways I found of making myself sad recently was simply logging into trademe.co.nz and searching for the free animals. There are just hundreds of them, just staring out at you with these big brown eyes. Notice how many of them are from people who are desperate to find a home for their cat or dog, that they loved, so that they can move over seas, or what have you. I noticed recently that one dog who was on trademe.co.nz months ago, resurfaced there again, same hungry eyes, same black face, but now under the care of an animal shelter. The subtext to these photos was that if Madeline (three years old Labrador X) wasn’t saved by someone soon, she’d be put down. After all, the RSPCA doesn’t have room for infinite pets, and they have to, as disturbingly as it sounds, make room for the new stock. I’d like to blame the pet owners for not planning ahead for their dog, or the SPCA for having such a restrictive criteria with regards to what people they will let house a dog, but that would be allocating blame without knowing the full story. The only thing I know is that poor Madeline (cat and child friendly), if only she had chosen to be cuter for longer (she likes walks!) she wouldn’t be in this horrible conundrum. Madeline (a quiet temperament, she comes with three leads and a doggie blanket!) she should have known better than to be the pet of somebody who would one day be put into a situation where they were unable to care for her. There ain’t no justice.