Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

February 9, 2007
Entry # 3

Hi everyone, it’s me Wimsey. Well, I just want to say that this whole Westminster thing has gotten completely out of hand. The other night I heard Maria (my human) and Elizabeth (a friend of hers) discussing whether I was too fat to be shown at Westminster! Can you believe it? Me? Fat?? Why, I am clearly all muscle (and a lot of skin, of course). And big boned.

It is even more insulting because last year all I heard about was how skinny I was. It was all “Look at how skinny Wimsey is,” “The judges don’t like skinny bloodhounds,” “Why is Wimsey so skinny?” and “Here Wimsey, have something to eat.” All of this from Maria whose bones I can feel poking me when I sit on her. Talk about a double standard. You don’t see me jabbing her in the ribs all the time. Well, actually I do, but it’s not related to body fat issues. Now this year, here is Elizabeth sitting on My Couch declaring that I have an awfully big butt. Well, excuse me, but no one is ever going to accuse Elizabeth of having insufficient junk in the trunk. I mean does she ever look at herself from behind? And I have a big butt??? Anyway, all this focus on body image is quite distressing and enough to send me into therapy. Going into therapy has been on my “to do” list for quite some time anyway, as I am a New York dog, and being in therapy is a major part of our fun lifestyle here in New York City. Plus, any activity that involves reclining on a couch gets my vote. All this criticism of my size is giving me quite a complex—perhaps I can interest Oprah in doing a show on dogs emotionally traumatized by weight issues. And how exactly does one calculate the Body Mass Index of a dog anyway?

In any case, being big is part of my genetic legacy. Last year at Westminster my breeder said I am just like my daddy Stetson, a rambunctious hound who was all gangly and weedy looking until one day the breeder said she woke up and he was absolutely enormous (as an aside, it has been an enduring disappointment to me that I was not given a cool, macho name like Stetson. Couldn’t they at least have called me something like “Colt” or “Johnny Ringo” or something)? I am apparently going to see my breeder again on Sunday when my show handler is scheduled to inspect me. I am hoping that however much they may decry my desire to pace instead of trot, my breeder and handler will set Maria and Elizabeth straight as to the beautiful and desirable nature of my enhanced proportions. After all, The Bloodhound Club of France describes me as “A Massive Sleuth Hound” in their website’s English translation. Personally, I am hoping that my breeder will be so impressed by my beauty and charm that she will decide I must be bred immediately.

On a more positive Westminster topic, I am wholly approving of all the plans being laid to make me as comfortable as possible during the show. Apparently Maria and Elizabeth plan on lining my crate with the sheets they each have been sleeping on for the last two weeks. Elizabeth has been busy working out in the same t-shirt to make sure it has an especially potent aroma for me to enjoy in my crate throughout the day. While all this is pretty good and very thoughtful, I personally would prefer to sleep on a pile of dirty underwear. Maria has absolutely vetoed this as she said she doubts the Westminster stewards would approve of the sight of me snoozing atop a mound of ladies lingerie.

But of course, undergarments have the most delightful smell imaginable to me, as Elizabeth found out to her detriment. From time to time, I spend my afternoons over at her place, and I have to tell you that she is not, despite her mother’s imprecations, the neatest human being on the planet. But then I hear “Wimsey, what is my brassiere doing on the sofa?” Well of course the brassiere is where I dropped it after removing it from the pile of underwear that she has carelessly left lying around (I stowed her socks behind the computer for later investigation, by the way). The shoes that she is too lazy to put back in the closet are also a great source of entertainment, especially when she has to figure out where I moved them to when she wants to go out. Ditto when the book that she was reading migrates to unexpected locations. It’s all kind of like a treasure hunt. And of course Elizabeth has discovered that clothing left hanging on door knobs inexplicably acquires patches of drool (did I mention I like to snuffle clothing?). Anyway, the great thing is that she has now learned, thanks to me, to put all her clothes away. What her mother was not able to accomplish over many years of pleading, threatening and nagging, I, Wimsey, have achieved in a remarkable few days! Perhaps I should commercialize this service: “The Wimsey School of Domestic Science and Hygiene.” I am becoming a master trainer of humans. Elizabeth always thinks that she trains me, but frankly all the evidence points to the contrary. Anyway, the fact that Elizabeth puts away her clothes forces me to attack the pile of recyclables that she thinks she has hidden behind the kitchen door. It is not for nothing that I am called a Massive Sleuth Hound!! Of course, Maria is already very well trained—she puts away everything, including the furniture. “Destruction hath no fury like a bloodhound bored” and all that.

Well, as pleasant as this visit with you has been, I have to catch up on my rest. This is going to be quite a week for me. Saturday I cruise by the vet’s for my Westminster health certificate— going to the vet is actually an enjoyable experience for me as they make a seriously huge amount of fuss over me and lots of scratching and cooing occurs amid cries of “Oh isn’t Wimsey lovely!” Then off to the groomer’s for a luxury bath and massage and lots more squealing, cooing and scratching. Of course, as much as I enjoy my bath, it does remove, at least temporarily, some of my fine, strong hound scent. I never understood the purpose of this, as we hounds are a delightfully strong smelling lot. And of course we like to distribute this fine aroma amongst our humans, so however much they may bathe themselves and us, they will always smell like us anyway.

Then on Sunday I get to ride out to New Jersey to embarrass Maria and Elizabeth in front of my show handler and my breeder (“I thought you said you were working with him….”). On Monday, I prepare myself for the big show through a long session of quiet, extremely deep meditation accompanied by rhythmic breathing exercises on the Tribute Couch On Tuesday all my gear will be assembled—Maria and Elizabeth have actually compiled quite an impressive list of stuff for my comfort and enjoyment, although the first five items consist of assorted drool rags. I will then tow Maria and Elizabeth to Central Park for a delightful pre-dawn romp and energize myself for my coming performance and all the meeting and greeting of my public that lay ahead. A special taxi is picking us all up and taking us to Madison Square Garden and America’s most famous dog show! I get to hang out all day with 15 fellow bloodhounds and believe me, the drool will fly. Maybe attendees approaching our bench should be issued those Plexiglas shields used by riot police. Just a thought. I can’t wait to tell you all about it next week...

May The Drool Be With You,

Wimsey