February 2, 2007
Entry # 2

Hello there everyone! It’s me, Wimsey, again bringing you the latest on my life as a New York bloodhound. As you can see, I hope to be able to update you every week or so with my news and views.

Well, I have to say, I got into a tremendous amount of trouble with Maria and Elizabeth (my human and a friend of hers) over my last blog. They strenuously objected to the amount of time I spent discussing my testicles. “Excessive” and “unnecessary” were words I heard bandied about all this week and “how embarrassing” and “how naughty of Wimsey,” etc. etc. etc. (as I once heard Yul Bryner say in that movie that my human has watched but won’t admit to seeing because it is an old, sappy chick flick). Anyway, my position is that since neither Maria nor Elizabeth are themselves in possession of any testicles whatsoever, they are not in a position to criticize my discussion of them. They could not possibly appreciate the degree of interest and enthusiasm that we males assign to all things testicular.

Frankly, given Maria and Elizabeth’s lack of comprehension, it is no wonder that they are both still single. This condition exists, I might add, through no fault of my own. I continually try to rectify the situation by introducing them to men— in fact, I pride myself on being the ultimate wing man. After all, who else is willing to use their nose to poke likely boyfriends in their backsides and then lean ingratiatingly into their bodies (thereby allowing potential suitors to demonstrate their strength and balance, not to mention their tolerance for drool), if not me? And if human males were inclined not to notice Maria or Elizabeth, my mere presence makes this an unlikely scenario. In fact, I think I am the perfect man magnet: human males look at me and see themselves—I am large, I am messy, I have a relaxed attitude towards hygiene, I scratch myself in impolite places and I like to eat foods that are not necessarily good for me with less than perfect table manners. Yes, men look at me and see a delightful canine reflection, as it were. And how could they fail to be impressed by any female holding the leash of such an awesome, yet somehow reassuringly familiar creature? Men immediately know that there will be no pesky arguments about picking up socks and such with my canine presence and paraphernalia littering the domestic landscape. Nothing they do could possibly be worse than what I do. Anyway, I feel that if I do not take these social matters into my own hands Maria could end up with a terribly inappropriate guy-- like someone who objects to my nose in his morning cornflakes for instance. Or, worse yet, she could decide to collect cats. For myself I never understood the attraction that single women have for living with too many cats. On the face of it, it would not seem to be socially enhancing. On the other hand, a large, social bloodhound seems like an ideal solution. I have demonstrated this many times by dragging my humans over to suitable males creating such icebreakers as “Oh, I’m sorry, did Wimsey do that to your cashmere coat” or “the drool will come out in the wash” or “he only sits on top of people he really likes” or “Wimsey, get off of that nice man’s dog.”

Of course, the real shame is that I am not permitted into bars and restaurants where I can more fully exert my man-trolling capabilities. I am, however, allowed in at the Boat Basin Café. This is one of my favorite places in New York—an outdoor café on the Hudson with a beautiful view, lots of other dogs to say hi to and of course lots of people to admire my majestic presence and resonant –some say ear splitting-- baying. Now to be able to bay with such éclat is a major advantage in life. Whenever I want to attract attention (which is most of the time) or am bored or just for the sheer joy of it, I raise my nose to the heavens, inhale deeply and let fly with a rich, magnificent sound that carries for miles. It is such a beautiful sound that Maria uses it as her ring tone to immensely comic effect with unsuspecting bystanders. And once, while escorting me to a photo shoot for my book, Elizabeth tried desperately to remain inconspicuous amongst all the Fifth Avenue business types. Well, I was having none of it—inconspicuousness being anathema to my being—and I bayed my way down the entire Avenue. You can only imagine how mortified the reserved Elizabeth was, shepherding a large baying hound down the center of one of the metropolis’ most elegant thoroughfares and drawing the astonished stares of the multitude! I think her skin looks most attractive when it is that shade of bright pink.

Of course, I also bay when I want something that I am not getting, in order to call immediate attention to this deficiency. Humans have been known to give me what I want just to get me to be quiet. I frequently use my bay to convince tourists and other members of my public to hand over their plastic beverage bottles so that I may play with them. I have actually had to steal very few. Humans seem delighted to fork over their bottles
whenever I bay for them. Sometimes they even empty them out themselves to make it more convenient for me. Maria and Elizabeth have given up asking people not to give me their bottles—they claim it only encourages me—but fortunately members of the public have better sense and see nothing wrong with encouraging me. Of course, members of the public don’t have to live with me either.

Well, it is getting late and I am already overdue for my nap on my Tribute Couch. The Tribute Couch, by the way, is really just a regular couch but Elizabeth has “trained” me to run onto it as an alternative to launching myself at her when she comes through the door. She claims that one of my giant paws once came close to giving her a tracheotomy, but I think she exaggerates. Anyway, when she comes in, I run to the couch where I have trained her to pay tribute to me by scratching me all over with both her hands and allowing me to shove my wrinkles, jowls and drool into her face; I then balance on my hind legs and lean into the back of the couch (“Wimsey’s being a Pasha again”) exposing all of my underside for further scratching. Delightful. I am so happy Elizabeth created the Tribute Couch.

Until next time,

Wimsey

PS: Westminster plans proceed apace. My trip to my show handler was mercifully postponed, but trotting for turkey and the assembling of gear to make me comfy in the benching area of the Garden is coming along nicely.