Broadway Tails (19 page)

This farm was in the New England hills. It was almost too good to be true. I called and explained the situation to the farm manger. He laughed at the prospect and invited me up for a tour. The farm was a dream. The sheep were free range and had beautiful barns. The nursery was clean and had fifty lambs at a time year-round. We agreed that I would pay them $100 per lamb, and they said they would gladly take the sheep back when they were too big to be carried onstage. It all seemed too good to be true because I could go back and tell Bernadette Peters and the producers (and the world!) that the lambs came from a beautiful farm and returned to live their lives in peace as milking sheep. I brought home the first baby lamb. My daughter, Jenna, loved naming things. The hundreds of stuffed toys she owned all had names. She took one look at the baby and decided to call her Violet.

We finally had our hypoallergenic dog and our lambs. Because the animals were just carried onstage, we waited until the cast and crew were in the theater in tech rehearsals before we brought them in. I had been
promised they would build a dressing room for us, four walls and a door where the animals would be safe and out of the way. When we arrived, I was upset. The room wasn’t built
—
we had two dogs in a crate, a crying lamb, and no place to sit. I ran into the production manager, who had been the head carpenter on the original production of
Annie
, and he remembered us. When he heard that we had no room, he said, “Don’t worry, Billy, it’ll be there for you tomorrow.” You know you’ve made it on Broadway when the stagehands take care of you.

The next day when we arrived we had a small but great room with a door. As we started working onstage with Sam Mendes, there were a million things going on with the sets, lighting, and costumes. We were coming in six days before the first performance. Everybody knew what was going on except for us. The first time that I walked up onstage with the baby lamb, Sam Mendes turned to me and said, “How are you going to stop it from going to the bathroom onstage?”

“Well, we’ll need to put a diaper on her.”

“I’d prefer it if we didn’t,” he said.

“If we had a seven-day-old human baby onstage, there’d be no way to prevent it from going to the bathroom. The same applies to this lamb,” I said. So he agreed to allow us to create a costume, a cloth diaper that went over the Pampers that we used.

Coco’s part was simple
—
she would be carried in with Bernadette as she made her entrance through the house and then get passed around onstage to the actors. The lamb was carried on and had to be quiet for an entire number. Bernadette was a pro and needed no help handling dogs. The plum role of Gypsy Rose Lee went to a young actress by the name of Tammy Blanchard. She was very sweet and very hardworking but unfamiliar with animals. Violet, our first baby lamb, had already bonded with Marge and me. We would feed her right before she went on to quiet her, but it didn’t help. She’d look offstage and cry for us. We taught Tammy a holding method to keep Violet tight against her body, and that helped quiet her down. Finally, she learned not to struggle. She’d still cry for us a little, but for the most part, we had worked out all the bugs.

The first performance went well. I slept on Marge’s couch until a day after the first performance, and then I had to leave to go to an out-of-town performance of
Paper Doll
, which was having its pre-Broadway tryout in New Haven, Connecticut. In two weeks, Violet went from 7 pounds to 14. She was doubling in size weekly. The breed that’s used for milking comes from Iceland, and they grow very large. I had to run up and get our second lamb—Jenna named her Daisy. She decided to start a flower theme for all the lambs. In mid-April, Daisy went into the show and Violet came back with me to our house and then back to the farm. When I first put her back in the nursery, all white and clean and smelling of baby powder, she really stuck out. But within minutes she was running around and playing with the other lambs.

The drama of acquiring and handling the animals was nothing compared to the drama of the negotiations on this show. The producers claimed
they hadn’t budgeted for the animals. My deal was that they had to pay the costs of acquiring and transporting the animals, as well as the cost of the handler and my fee. Together, my trainer’s salary and my fee equaled the amount of one chorus person’s salary. It often happens that we have to start work before our contracts are signed, and that was the case with this production. Once Marge started working, they paid for her time, but they kept changing the terms of my contract, and I wouldn’t agree to them after we had started working. Without a contract, they wouldn’t pay me. I refused to give up on the things I had agreed to, and soon it became a stalemate.

As the weeks went by, I was at a crossroads. I hired one of the best entertainment lawyers to represent me, but nothing was resolved. After eight weeks of my animals showing up and doing a Broadway show without pay, I had had it. I took a stand. I was going to leave on my terms rather than stay on theirs. I spoke to Marge about it, and she was behind me 100 percent in my decision to leave the show.

In passing, Marge told Bernadette Peters the animals would be leaving. When Bernadette learned I hadn’t been paid, she picked up the phone in her dressing room and called the managers and told them to fix it. Bernadette was adamant that Marge, the animals, and I were going nowhere. Within two days my contract was signed on my original terms—but it took an animal-loving star to help us out. No one has ever stood up for us the way that Bernadette Peters did.

The show got great reviews and ran for a year. Bernadette received another Tony Award nomination. We went through twenty-three lambs; Jenna named them all after flowers except one dwarf lamb that we found, named Jack. He would have lasted longer but he started growing horns. Marge put bows on them, but by the end he started hurting people. Marge and Coco had become inseparable, and I decided that she should take Coco home. Marge was sad to see the lambs go. We had become experts on lamb diet and behavior.

When I remember
Gypsy
, I remember two great ladies, June Havoc and Bernadette Peters, and how their love for animals continues to inspire me.

In the fall of 2003 I found a message on my answering machine: “Hello. How much would it cost to have a dog in a show?” We get calls like this all the time. I thought it was probably some young theater student doing a college play, so I called her back. I politely explained that training a dog took weeks or months. “What does the dog have to do?” I asked. She replied, “All the dog has to do is run onstage and lick an actor. We were thinking of a Dalmatian.”

I thought to myself, This will never happen. I explained that Dalmatians were very high-strung dogs and that I didn’t have one currently, so I would have to start from scratch. The cost would be thousands of dollars. I was certain that would end her interest, but I asked why she wanted the dog. After a pause she said, “Well, I’m Tara Young, Susan Stroman’s assistant. Susan has been asked to create a new American ballet for the New York City Ballet to celebrate the Balanchine Centennial.” I couldn’t believe my ears. Susan Stroman was Broadway’s hottest director. The New York City Ballet is one of the world’s leading dance companies. Balanchine was a genius. And I was trying to lose the job!

Stroman already had a reputation as a brilliant choreographer, but she had taken Broadway by storm, directing and choreographing the musical version of Mel Brooks’s
The Producers
. It had opened on Broadway and won more Tony Awards than any show in Broadway history. Plus, she was known as one of the nicest people to work with, down-to-earth but demanding excellence.

Tara explained that Susan’s concept for the ballet was based on silent movies. The costumes and sets would be black-and-white, which is why they wanted a black-and-white dog. I had to rescue this situation somehow, so, feeling like an idiot, I sheepishly said, “I don’t have a Dalmatian, but I have a black-and-white Boston terrier. Can I e-mail you a picture?” She said, “Oh, absolutely.” After I took down the e-mail address, I said, “And because this dog is already trained and we own it, it would save you a substantial amount of money.” After I told Dorothy what had happened, she said, “See, I told you Pi would work.”

I did have my doubts about Pi. In 2001, he had been turned over to the Boston Terrier Rescue Group of New York. He had been too rambunctious for the family that owned him, so they had left him tied outside to a tree for months. The rescue group had socialized him and given him basic obedience training, even agility training. By summer 2002, he was ready for adoption. That summer, Jenna had started asking for a dog of her own. I argued that she could pick any of the dogs we already owned, but Dorothy said it wouldn’t be the same. I argued that Jenna was too young, but Dorothy knew better. Before I knew it, Pi was coming to the house for a visit.

When we met Pi, he was a handsome, confident, tough terrier, well trained but easily overstimulated—completely wrong for our household and a five-year-old girl. He was eyeing the horses and the llamas and barking at all the other dogs. I said I didn’t think he would fit in. Jenna gave me the eyes. Dorothy gave me the smile. Pi sat on our picnic table and paid no attention to me at all. I envisioned him tied to that tree, alone and afraid of people. Then I thought about how far he had come. I decided he deserved a chance.

Now, Pi knew many commands, and he listened very well in a working session. And he did work for me—he was featured in a book about yoga called
Doga
, for which I provided the dogs. But he also chased the cats, chased the horses, and barked at the other dogs. He had food allergies and stomach problems. All in all, he had been more work than ten dogs put together. So I said to Dorothy, “You’re crazy! He’ll be chasing ballerinas all over that stage. I was just buying us time until we could find the right dog.” We sent his picture anyway the next day and I got a call that afternoon. “Hello, is Bill there? This is Susan Stroman.”

I almost fainted. She was warm and pleasant and loved the picture of Pi’s face. In fact, her assistant director, Scott Bishop, had already made it his screensaver on the computer. She said, “Bill, I know nothing about dogs. What can we expect him to do?” I offered to come into New York to show her in person. I was floored—Pi and I were going to have a private session with Susan Stroman! On the appointed day I arrived at her New York penthouse and was greeted by Scott, her assistant director, and Tara, Susan’s assistant choreographer. They screamed when they saw Pi, and he proceeded to jump all over them, much to my dismay. I was led into an all-white studio with mirrors, where I met Susan. She extended her hand with a warm and welcoming smile and said, “What a pleasure it is to meet you.” I’m thinking,
a pleasure to meet me?
I was snapped back to reality by Pi attacking his reflection in a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Everybody was laughing, but I was so embarrassed.

They sat down and I went into my presentation. I showed them basic obedience, how Pi walked, sat, stayed, and came on command, all to hand signals. Pi was flawless. Then for the closing, I held a treat at shoulder height and Pi leapt straight up, spinning like an athlete, and that was it. Susan was so impressed she asked if he could do that onstage. I assured her that if he was going to do one thing, it would be jump around onstage.

She explained that the piece was called
Double Feature
. It would consist of two one-act ballets based on silent films. The second act was a comedy
called
Makin’ Whoopee
, based on a Buster Keaton film. The basic story is boy meets girl. Girl has dog. Boy loses girl. Dog harasses boy. Boy gets girl in the end. She wanted a dog to do two or three quick comedic bits onstage and run off. As we brainstormed, she came up with her idea for the opening—the boy enters with a box of chocolates and the dog tries to steal them. In the next bit, the boy closes his eyes for a kiss from the girl, the girl walks off, and the dog kisses the boy. Later on, the boy is chased by a bunch of people—could the dog chase the boy as well? Wouldn’t it be funny if the dog grabs the boy’s pants leg? While Pi was trying to climb all over the furniture, I told Susan I thought we could get Pi to do most of the things she was asking. But I was a little leery of the chasing and biting part because he really loved to do that in real life.

She then explained the schedule. We would get the ballet company for one week of rehearsal, three days of tech rehearsals, and then seven performances. To accommodate that, she would create the ballet with her own
dancers throughout the fall in bits and pieces, and then she would teach it to the ballet company. I explained that the lack of time would make it difficult for me to bond Pi with the dancer playing the boy, but I said if she was willing to try, I thought we could make it work.

But, again, I felt compelled to tell her the truth—Pi was a high-strung dog, and with his history, I wasn’t sure if he would be right for the part. She asked me, “What does your gut tell you?” I said my instinct was that he was a survivor, and that if we could teach him the right things, he would have a chance to do it. She said to me, “Then if you’re willing to try, so am I.” I have never felt such a sense of support, respect, and collaboration as I did at that moment.

We began working one day a week, every two weeks, in a rehearsal room in Times Square. When I arrived, it was Susan, her assistant choreographer Tara, her assistant director Scott, and two of her dancers, Joanne Manning and Fergus Logan. We started the first cue, where Pi walks in with the girl and the boy comes onstage with chocolates. He takes one out and the dog leaps to try and steal it. He would jump three times and then the boy would take the treat and throw it offstage.

We gave Fergus a treat—Pi jumped and jumped and jumped. Susan was laughing. On cue Fergus threw it toward me and Pi chased it. The first time was great, so we tried it again. This time Pi didn’t see the treat being thrown. So when Fergus turned around and put his hands on his hips, Pi thought he still had the treat in his hand and jumped up and nipped his side.
Oh my lord
, I thought,
my career’s over
. Fortunately there was no blood, just a good pinch. We worked for about an hour to refine the trick. Susan was thrilled, but I had ten more gray hairs.

Two weeks later we had our next session. We ran that first part and Pi remembered it perfectly. During this session, we were going to work on the scene where he comes onstage and “kisses” the boy. Now, the old dog trainer’s trick is to put peanut butter on someone’s face where the audience can’t see it. The first time we tried it, Pi saw the peanut butter and ran
out to Fergus—the next thing I hear is “Owwww!” Pi had nipped his nose. The next time I tried putting the peanut butter closer to Fergus’s ear, but Pi nipped it, too. Finally, I found a spot in the middle of Fergus’s cheek and he got lots of kisses. Susan was happy. Fergus, who was being a real trouper, smiled. And I had twenty more gray hairs.

Week four was the scene where Pi had to run across the stage, chasing the boy—except I found out that Pi would be wearing a wedding dress and carrying a newspaper. “Okay,” I said, “the dress we can do, but carrying things is not something terriers do.” I gave Pi the rolled-up newspaper, and, of course, he immediately attacked it with glee. I wrestled it away from him and told Susan, “I’m going to have to work on this, but we can start practicing with the dress on and having him follow Fergus across the stage.” For that rehearsal, we wrapped a piece of fabric around Pi’s chest. Fergus had a treat and would run across the stage. When he got halfway, I’d release Pi. Fergus ran fast to avoid him. We also practiced the earlier bits and it seemed to go well.

On the break between weeks four and five, I practiced the retrieving with a tightly rolled newspaper. I would throw it, Pi would bring it back to me, and I had to give him a treat. Pi started to get the idea that the newspaper wasn’t for chewing. We went in for week six, and I was able to show Susan that at least he wasn’t shredding it. But our last bit was grabbing the boy’s pant leg. This week I spared poor Fergus and showed Susan how I intended to make it happen. I took Pi’s favorite toy and taped it to the inside of my pant leg. As he ran toward me, I knew what was coming—he missed the toy and got my leg. I was afraid that’s exactly what would happen onstage. We started to brainstorm some other ways to get the same effect. Susan suggested maybe the sleeve of a jacket, but I still felt it was too close to the body.

As we were thinking, I suggested a hat, which could be held away from the dancer. Susan asked me to demonstrate, so I put the toy in a rag and Pi grabbed onto it. As far as he was concerned, he was playing tug-of-war with me. While he was doing that, I couldn’t hear what Susan was saying,
so I walked over to her while he was holding onto it, dragging him along behind me. She burst out laughing and that was it. In the four sessions where we had collaborated, we had come up with some pretty impressive behaviors, with complete success. She was ready to tell the New York City Ballet that it could be done, and she asked me again if I was still willing to do it. For her, I said, “anything.”