Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

February 16, 2007
Entry # 4

Hello everyone. Wimsey here. Well, I have been vindicated at last! I can’t tell you how immensely satisfying it is to be right and for Maria (my human) and Elizabeth (a friend of hers) to be wrong. I love to be right and for it to be shown publicly that I am right is even better. I am sure you all know the feeling. It is even better than a handful of liver treats.

Anyway, if you remember, last week Maria and Elizabeth were engaged in this absurd conversation about the possibility of me being too fat. I have noticed that human females seem to spend excessive amounts of time in these lengthy, and frankly pointless conversations about whether they are too fat (in my experience, discussing fat is not a good strategy for its eradication). Or worse yet, they conduct intensive discussions about the possibility of specific garments making them look fat. I am always being interrogated on such topics as “Wimsey, do you think these jeans make me look fat?”(even being a bloodhound does not exempt me from these questions)—to which the obvious reply is “Trust me, when you get done exercising me to the degree to which I intend that I should be exercised, not only will you not have the energy to ask inane questions, but you will need suspenders to hold up those mysteriously fat creating jeans.” The proper exercising of me is simply not compatible with excess body fat. Funny how the solution to so many human problems is the acquisition of a large bloodhound.

But I digress. On Sunday Maria and Elizabeth drove me out to New Jersey to be inspected by my show handler and my breeder. Far from thinking I was too fat, you should have heard these ladies—it was all “Oooh, Wimsey looks sooo good” and “Oooh, look at that muscle definition” and “Look at Wimsey’s color—such a beautiful, rich mahogany.” And this from people who actually know what I am supposed to look like. (Of course it was pretty weird that they were talking about me like I wasn’t there or couldn’t understand them or anything, but I imagine this kind of thing happens to Gisele Bundchen all the time). Well all of this well deserved admiration put me in a pretty cooperative mood, so I allowed my handler to stack me properly and trotted rather than paced for her. Now I don’t want you to get the erroneous impression that I always behave for her either. There was that memorable time when I reared up and took off with her across a show ring. Show collars and leashes are amazingly flimsy things you know. I am afraid she has never forgiven me, but as long as you weren’t her, it was pretty funny.

Well, finally this Tuesday, Westminster Day arrived and it was a blast, I can tell you: A brisk walk with Maria and Elizabeth at 5:30am, a ride in my private Pet Chauffeur taxi at 7 and my humans hauling and toting all my stuff! Amazing how much stuff I require to make me comfortable. And of course, a ring with sixteen gorgeous, majestic bloodhounds and none as handsome as I, although I am told the judge did not agree with this assessment. But no matter, we have agreed to disagree, he and I. And I did give everyone a break, much to their astonishment, by behaving myself—at least in the ring. Now I fancy that although I apparently did not win on looks, I certainly did on charm. I would most definitely have been named Mr. Congeniality, if such an award existed at dog shows. It is a shocking omission that it does not. When out of my crate, (perfumed with used sheets and t shirts, of course), I was the focus of everyone’s attention. The admiration! The petting! The cameras! The public could not get enough of me and who could blame them: when people squatted down to greet me, I climbed on them—the better to get a view of my surroundings—when they had water bottles, I relieved them of the burden of carrying them, and when the mood struck me I raised my fine voice in song --to the wondrous delight of all present. I spread a quantity of drool, in spite of Elizabeth’s over enthusiastic use of the drool rag, and received the ultimate accolade—a multi-handed belly rub by the folks manning (or rather womanning) the ASPCA booth. And such goosing opportunities as is seldom seen in this life! So many fine derrieres to sneak up upon and to poke my nose into, much to the startled surprise of their owners. I never tire of this excellent activity. Is it any wonder that I am such a popular Hound? And of course, I received so many warm words of support from those of you reading this, and from the folks at New York Running Paws who run me in the park every day (hence my fine muscle definition) and from friends and neighbors on the Upper West Side. It takes a major metropolis, after all, to raise a bloodhound. Such a shame that Westminster comes only once a year!

But something even more cataclysmic happened to me at Westminster. I fell in love! It is always when one is never expecting these things that they happen. Just like with humans--they can spend hours on Match.com and then one day they are buying kibble in the bodega, wondering if their dog is too fat, and boom—the love of their life can appear. In my case, the object of my adoration is named Bizzy and she was Hound Number 15—right next to me on the Westminster bench. She is the most gorgeous, sweet tempered, serene (someone has to be) liver colored female I have ever laid nose upon. And, as is often the way of these things, I have never in the past fancied myself much of a liver colored man. Personally, I have always found the liver colored ladies a little too bland and washed out to appeal to my vibrant senses. I always imagined I would end up with a fiery redhead. But then there she was---this magnificent girl whose liver colored coat glowed like burnished gold, like sweet honey, like the summer sun, like a rich slab of butter waiting to be stolen off the kitchen counter. And her beautiful, soulful brown eyes dragged downwards by a preponderance of exquisitely deep wrinkles--it was enough to make a grown bloodhound bay (It is a great travesty, by the way, that humans see fit to undergo expensive and painful surgery to eliminate their wrinkles. Some species have no taste whatsoever). Well, what more can be said about this spectacular golden girl. It is not for nothing that humans use the word “bitchin’” as a term of extreme approbation. Bizzy lives in Kansas and I have instructed Maria to start checking the show schedules in the Midwest forthwith. Long distance relationships can be so stressful.

Well, time for one last prowl around to see if Maria foolishly left anything exciting around for me to destroy and then it’s nap time. I must keep up my strength. We have had a good icy snowfall here in New York City and it would not be winter if I could not send one of my humans skidding on their bottoms at least once this season.

All my best,

Wimsey