Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

March 2, 2007
Entry # 6

Greetings all. Wimsey here. Well, I must say this has been a rather disappointing week. After all this talk about clickering me and stacking me and trotting me and road trips to exotic out of town locations like New Jersey-- nothing much has happened. Now Maria (my human) says it’s because Elizabeth-- a friend of hers, and the one who is supposedly going to wield the clicker to such marvelous (and unrealistic) effect-- has been sick this week. We did, however, manage to take one walk together and I wish we hadn’t-- illness makes humans so crabby. Instead of just depositing a steaming pile of fragrant vomit on the carpet and have done with it, humans engage in this incessant whining and complaining when they are sick. All I heard on our walk was “Wimsey, why are you pulling” and Wimsey why are you baying” like these are some altogether new and shocking behaviors! Maybe the cold virus also destroyed a few neuronal memory synapses. Or then again, maybe it was the surfeit of medicinal gin and tonics.

Anyway, I still find it extraordinary that such a weak minded species has taken over the planet. Perhaps my next writing project will be a science fiction thriller about a Legion of Super Hounds that puts this situation to rights. One Hound will have amazing strength and one Hound will have an amazing sense of smell and one Hound will be super smart (OK, maybe not him) and one Hound will always get his way… But hold on, we non-super hounds already do all of this. Perhaps we really are a super race after all and just need to organize a bit better. Maybe I should consider throwing my leash into the ring for the next presidential election—I don’t think I could look any sillier than the present group of hopefuls (let’s see, we have the African American guy who is somehow not African American enough, the lady in the ugly pantsuits whose husband likes the ladies, a guy people fear might secretly favor polygamy, a former New York City mayor with a few too many ex wives and an obsession with ferrets, a guy no one wants to say anything bad about because he is a war hero and the other guy, the one from last time, with the good hair who no one pays attention to-- I think I should have Maria call Letterman immediately!) And there would be no risk of me toadying to special interests or anything. As a bloodhound, my only special interest is me.

I can just see it all now: Wimsey on Foreign Policy: anyone starting a war will get bitten. Wimsey on economic policy: resource guarding will not be tolerated—The Wimsey Administration will swap a piece of turkey for all Goldman Sachs bonus checks; Wimsey on race relations: The Wimsey administration supports affirmative action for the sporting, working terrier, toy, herding and non-sporting groups; Wimsey’s China policy: No more Chinese takeout menus under the door! Wimsey on crime: anyone caught stealing food will be pardoned; all other crimes will be punishable by spending time with Cesar Millan. And of course as a proponent of women’s rights, I would demand that all women cease demeaning themselves by wearing brassieres and donate them to me. Preferably used.

But again I digress. I was in the process of relating the annoying situation of Elizabeth’s illness. In addition to being crabby, neuronally challenged, and unavailable for walks, she apparently took the opportunity of being sick to hole up with Cesar Millan’s book, Cesar’s Way. I overheard Elizabeth telling Maria that try as she might, she could find no information on dogs that were “bratty submissive.” For myself, I never could understand dogs that feel the need to be dominant. It takes so much work and energy and all it does is alert the humans to the fact that you want to get your own way. It’s like holding up a big red flag that says “train me or else.” How much better it is to follow Wimsey’s Way (do I detect a book deal in the making?) I am so gentle and unassuming—“Oh Wimsey is such a nice dog” and “There is not a mean bone in Wimsey’s body” and “Oooh what a sweet nature Wimsey has—he’s a gentle giant.” And let’s see, what does that get me….uh just EVERYTHING THAT I WANT and I am admired to boot! Quite an accomplishment, I’d say. People give me their water bottles—no need to seize them or anything drastic like that. Humans pet me when I gently lean on them. When I want something, I simply bay and everyone thinks it is so funny that they give me what I want to encourage me to bay some more. And as a non-dominant dog, beds, furniture and laps are all perfectly accessible to me and no one fears that wrestling with me will turn me into Attila the Canine. My leash manners are truly appalling but I always stop submissively in mid-tow if ordered to do so—no insubordination here—and then I just happily resume towing. It’s pretty hilarious, especially because Elizabeth volunteers at the ASPCA and is always asking me why the pit bulls and Rottweilers and such listen to her, but I don’t. It’s Wimsey’s Way. She’s “calm assertive” and I am “I don’t care.” (She could also try being dominant aggressive and I would still be “I don’t care!" --consistency being the hallmark of my training methods). And I think getting pronged in the neck with fingers feels rather nice.

Anyway, the only other thing of remote interest this week was the Oscar’s. Now I do admit to being something of a cinephile (and indeed a cineaste as well—I am planning on adding some of my canine video masterpieces to this site soon). Sitting on Maria, snuffling the popcorn, butter dripping from my nose, quietly playing with the remote control (yes, males of all species must have the remote!) What an enjoyable way to spend an evening. But I do wish there were more good parts for bloodhounds. Our portrayal in the media is sadly one dimensional and stereotyped—“Sir, the prisoner has escaped---call out the bloodhounds”. I mean really. What about our quiet moments at home destroying prized possessions (humans can be so materialistic) or decorating the walls with drool. Not to mention the grievous bodily harm we commit by lap dancing. And there are no film portrayals of our tortured inner contradictions—how majestic, noble and dignified we look on the outside and how foolish and ridiculous we are on the inside (Oh, the trauma of looking like Gregory Peck but having the personality of Jerry Lewis!). All of that reduced to “call out the bloodhounds.” Do they just say “call out the topless blonde women” when a movie gets boring? No, they make movies exploring the depth of character, inner life and deep spirituality of the topless blonde women. And so it should be for bloodhounds.

Getting back to the Oscars, I have to say, that like almost everyone else except for the actual nominees, I watch the Oscar’s because of the clothes. Clothing is such a fun concept as we canines are stuck with one outfit for life (except the poodles, but that is just plain weird). And humans who are all meant to be so creative and talk so much about individual expression and everything all end up wearing the same thing because it is in style (exactly which uber human decides these things, by the way?) This year for instance, there were so many neutrals—ladies please, a little more consideration here—neutrals all look like the same color to me. Still I ponder what it would be like one day if they said, “Sorry Wimsey, black and tan is so last year. Brindle is all the rage—it’s the new black” and Maria dutifully took me to the $300 colorist (brindle isn’t a “single process” operation after all) and had me dyed. I wonder if I would have more street cred if I were brindle (look a giant, fierce pit bull with wrinkles!) Of course if I looked like a pit bull Elizabeth would have to train me. But I do sometimes fantasize about what it would be like to be a tough looking guy—perhaps I can persuade Maria to tell people that I am really a Fila (if you don’t know what that is, trust me, you don’t want to know). Of course, she would hate the concept of me being a tough dog—if you really want to wind her up (I wish I could pay people to do it, it’s just that entertaining) just look at me and say “Hound of the Baskervilles” and you will have one tall irate redhead on your hands going seriously mental shouting “No! No NO! The Hound of the Baskervilles was a mastiff! He was a mastiff! The Hound of the Baskervilles was a MASTIFF !!! He was not Wimsey. Wimsey is a bloodhound. He is gentle.”

Such good fun. As I say, it’s Wimsey’s Way.

Hope next week is more exciting,

Wimsey

PS: feel free to pull the “Hound of the Baskervilles” routine if you see us in the park—I could use a little excitement!