Friday, April 13, 2007

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 12
April 13, 2007

Hello Everyone! It’s me, Wimsey. Or me, Wimsey the Wonderhund, as I like to think of myself these days; I have actually been doing my show dog exercises pretty diligently (especially the part about eating the liver) and my human Maria and Elizabeth (a friend of hers) are getting a little worried: “Wimsey appears to be behaving himself. Do you think he is feeling alright?”

But of course show training me is not all beer and kibbles-- whenever another dog hoves into view my humans need to fling themselves on top of me (amid much squealing) in order to pin me so that I can’t take off to say hi to the passing dog (did I mention that show leads and collars are pretty much just pieces of string and I am 125 pounds of seriously gregarious hound)? But really the biggest surprise of my show training is the fact that the liver that Maria boiled is actually edible! Now Maria’s mother has been giving me quite a lot of flack for dissing the culinary skills that she so carefully inculcated into her dutiful daughter. I have only one word for her—“fondue”. I think she should ask Maria about the fondue that was so awful that even I refused to eat it. Poor Elizabeth, who was invited to dinner that night, was forced to go home and order take out. Now in my non-humble opinion, it is not unreasonable to assume that anyone who is unable to melt cheese might likewise have some difficulty boiling liver.

But back to the whole show training thing. Now although my humans seem to feel that I am making progress in acquiring the art of the trot (front and rear legs move on opposite sides of the body) rather than the pace (front and rear legs move on same side of the body—the canine equivalent of the Frankenstein walk and equally as graceful!), I wouldn’t be a proper hound unless I found away to bedevil them. Now the exciting thing is that in the process of thwarting them, I have invented a new gait! I call it the “trop” (which is very appropriate since “trop” means too much in French and everything I do is pretty much, too much). Well the Wimsey Trotting Protocol calls for me take off at a trot—actually I like to throw in a few terrifying gallop strides first, just to keep the ladies on their toes—and then to be forced to start again should I take off at a pace instead of at a trot. If I trot properly, I get a piece of Maria’s surprisingly edible liver (well, not her actual liver of course, she needs that one to metabolize her tequila collection, but the liver that she so expertly boiled).

Well, how this works in practice is that whilst one human gaits me, the other calls out whether it is a pace or a trot (or “Liver or No Liver” as I like to think of it). But of course, the whole carefully crafted system is predicated on the ability of Maria and Elizabeth to actually correctly identify whether I am trotting or pacing. Hence the “trop”. When I trop, its all “Look at that! What is it!? What is Wimsey doing?” And ‘I don’t know. It kind of looks like a trot but then it also looks like a pace.” (Yes, that is why it is called a trop) In fact, the trop is neither a pace nor a trot and its entire purpose is to confuse Maria and Elizabeth sufficiently to cough up pieces of liver, while at the same time making sure that I am not actually being obedient (it is a little known fact that obedient Hounds are often turned into pillars of salt). I mean how can people say that hounds aren’t intelligent—I get what I want (even if I have to invent a new gait in the process) while the humans around me don’t. I prefer to think of us as selectively intelligent—brilliant beasts about the things that interest us (like getting our way) and perfect dolts about things that don’t (like commands to get our noses out of the food).

Well, it’s all been great fun and as usual, excellent exercise and training for my humans. But then again, I am pretty much in favor of anything that involves keeping me in Central Park and feeding me liver. And we run into so many people ---like those who haven’t seen me in a couple of months and insist that I have gotten even bigger. This inevitably causes Maria and Elizabeth to engage in much wailing and gnashing of teeth. All of which always ends in denial: “No, they must be mistaken. I was distinctly promised that Wimsey would not get any larger after he turned three!” and “Maybe we lost weight and he just looks bigger; like an optical illusion.” There is something supremely edifying about the fact that hounds get larger while humans get smaller. We need the extra mass, after all to contain our burgeoning brain power.

Anyway, all this talk about size has, has made me think that maybe I should open the Wimsey Big and Tall Shop for husky Canines of Size. It is always so humiliating to walk into the pet store and listen to the clerks tut tutting about merchandise not being made in my size (“have you tried using a belt instead of a collar?—those come in big sizes” and “I am sorry but Wimsey has got his head stuck in the traveling water pouch again” and “A coat in Wimsey’s size—have you tried the men’s department at Bloomingdales?”). And then there are all those tiny bottles of shampoo that might be enough to wash my tail and teensy weensy toys that just seem to disappear in my big mouth. Now you would think that with all the supersizing that Americans do the supersized hound would be enormously popular. (“Does he come with fries?”). But the dogs seem to be getting smaller as the people get larger. Maybe they are aspirational.

So at Wimsey’s Big and Tall Shop we could offer lots of large clothing in baggy stretch materials (thus giving all canines a pleasing bloodhound like appearance) and we could sell furniture made especially for large dogs—the dog beds in our size would have to be actual beds of course, and we could also sell couches capacious enough so the Larger Canine is not forced to shove his humans on the floor. Sitting on them is preferable. Of course, I don’t mean to complain-- being Big and Tall does have its advantages, especially when wrestling humans who are Short and Small. Then again temporarily blinding them with wads of drool before jumping on them may also be contributory to my success in the wrestling ring. The ability to fling drool is kind of like having one of those special powers that super heroes have. Anyway, being Big and Tall just means that there is more of me to love. And to scratch. And to feed. And to groom. And to walk. And to pick up after. And especially to pick up after. (I always enjoy watching Maria try to fit a large poop into a small bag. Cooking and driving may not be her fortes, but she is not entirely devoid of useful skills).

As you can imagine we all have been spending rather a lot of time in Central Park and few people realize this, but Central Park is quite a bit like a medieval village (I know I do seem to hark back to the Middle Ages quite a bit, it’s my ancient linage--see entry # 8). Now in the medieval world people were known by their attributes rather than by their surnames (“Oh, here comes John the Fat walking his Hound, Wimsey the Magnificent”). And in Central Park very few people get around to exchanging names (giving a stranger your name— too scary here in New York-- after all, you don’t even know them!). So, much like in medieval times, one tends to remember people based on their attributes. For instance, this Spring (and I use that word loosely, Elizabeth is still wearing her hideously drool encrusted down jacket) we have Squeaky Lady who continuously admonishes her mellow dog to come play with me in a voice that let us say is “extreme soprano,” and there is Man With Golden Retriever Who Hates Me, and Aloof Woman with Aloof Irish Setters and Handsome Doberman Guy (unfortunately Handsome Doberman Guy comes with a wedding ring attached, so this precludes my Wimsey the Wingman activities (see entry #2); Handsome Doberman Guy is so taken with me that he swears that if it weren’t for the drool he would acquire a bloodhound forthwith (well, that is like saying you would live in the tropics if it weren’t for the sun!)

But I have to say that my very favorite stranger of all is Booby Lady. Now during the one day we had warm weather we ran into Booby Lady (her name being descriptive of a rather remarkable display of female pulchritude). Well she took one look at me squealed in delight and bounced excitedly over, low cut t-shirt and all. Then she nuzzled and cuddled my head right in between “her twins”! Elizabeth (no slouch herself in that area) told Maria that it was quite a show from where she stood. She was at pains, however, to inform Maria “that however much I am attached to Wimsey, “Wimsey should under no circumstances expect similar treatment” from her. I have to say that I can now more fully appreciate why human males seem so enamored of certain aspects of human female anatomy, although for my part there is nothing so attractive as a well wrinkled, loose jowl. But this wasn’t too shabby. Sad to say, that with the continuing cool temperatures, I have not yet again had the opportunity to experiences the full charms of Booby Lady. But I will. I watch the weather channel daily.

Size matters.

Until next week,



Boomer and his mom Carol said...


Central Park is wonderful but how are you dealing with all the rain New York has had lately, is it still as fun? I guess as long as there is a chance of seeing Booby Lady it will always be fun.

I have a fun game with mom. She could be standing somewhere, say the kitchen, and I will walk behind her and try and jam my nose up her butt. She freaks when I do that but I try and tell her it's the poochie greeting.

She aint buying it.

Peanut said...

I am so glad Maria can boil liver for you since she can't cook.
Hey I have a booby lady in my house, it's my mom (she's so big she has to order bras she can't go to a store and buy them) and I find those things very comfortable to rest my head on when I am tired. I hope you see Booby lady again soon.

Tasha & Eva said...

Hi Wimsey, Eva here. You are doing such a fine job of training Maria and Elizabeth for the show ring. Maria making you liver, showing them how well you trop, and more outside time! Nice trifecta. Good luck with the continued training! We hardly ever have to wear clothes so I don't think we'll come to your Big & Tall store. You'r much bigger than us, too. I do wear a tight t-shirt when there are bad thunderstorms. The humans say its supposed to keep me calm, but I still run and hide and shake if its really loud thunder. Belly Rubs, Eva

Tadpole said...

Again, there's one thing that I caught - CHEESE! And you didn't eat it!!! It couldn't have been THAT bad, could it?! You can always eat CHEESE!!!

And my girl likes the "optical illusion" theory on size....

Nanook's Mama said...

bwa hahahahahah! hahahahahah! hahahahahah! haaaaaa...

Tasha & Eva said...

Hey Wimsey, are you keeping your jowls above water? We hear you had quite the storm in NYC. I bet no time in the park for you recently. Belly Rubs, Eva.
P.S. I posted a picture just for you!