Wimsey's Blog:Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 14
April 27, 2007

Hello Everyone! It’s me Wimsey-- also variously known as The Great Hound, El Sabueso and Sir (as in: “Would Sir care for some liver?” or “More of Sir’s show paraphernalia has just arrived”). Of course, I am also frequently known as “Wimsey Stop That.” I am getting called that a lot more often these days as my human Maria has wisely decided to once again walk me on a prong collar instead of the Dreaded Gentle Leader. She is under the misguided belief that I am finally ready to behave myself again on our walks. Also, as I am shortly to resume my show career, she is too embarrassed to bring me into the show ring with Gentle Leader induced marks on my muzzle. It is the canine equivalent of the scarlet “P.” (Personally I hate the thing—in addition to being uncomfortable and leaving marks some people think it is a muzzle. It makes me want to bite them).

Show Judge: Why does this hound have a ring around his nose?

Maria: It’s from pulling on his gentle leader, I am afraid.

Show Judge: You mean this hound pulls! How shocking! And why is he baying at me.

Maria: He wants to shred that ribbon you are holding.

Show Judge: A hound that pulls and bays. What other deviant behaviors does this hound engage in?

Maria: Well, he also drools quite a bit and shakes his head a lot to fling it about.

Show Judge: A pulling, baying, drool flinging hound! How could this have happened?

Maria: Wimsey claims that he is not responsible—it’s his DNA.

Show Judge: Nevertheless, I am afraid it is not permitted to show your hound with three people in wet suits hanging onto him.

Well, DNA is a very funny thing, you know. It causes us to have strong instincts to do things that are not wholly under the logical control of our brains—even the massive hound ones. Now ever since I was a tiny puppy (OK, maybe not an actual tiny one, more like a really big one) I have had a great love of police officers. This has worked out quite well as New York City’s 20th precinct (the finest of The Finest as I like to think of them) is on my route to Central Park and so I am always trying to drag my humans in to say hello to all those delicious-smelling officers. It is of course logical that I should admire these fellows—they keep the streets safe for handsome hounds like myself whose massive size does not necessarily translate into a courageous temperament (“Maybe you should have called him Wimpy instead of Wimsey”)—but I also just feel this powerful, mystical affinity for these guys. (Also they all wear dark blue which shows up my drool in a particularly attractive manner if I do say so myself). I believe that somewhere amidst all the genes that cause me to sing at high decibels, fling drool and generously share my delectable houndly odor with my humans, is an ancient police loving piece of DNA. Based on the evidence, I am sure that I come from a long line of crime solving canines:

Peasant: “Come quick, Monsieur le Seneschal! Someone has stolen a potato!”

M. le Seneschal: “Never fear! We will unleash the ferocious tracking power of The King’s new St. Hubert Dog, Wimsie, who will quickly find the abominable thieving miscreant!”

As a consequence of this ancient genetic program, I become very excited at the sight of New York City’s own blue knights-- I have even been known to bay at them until they come and pet me. (And they frequently call me “dawg” as an acknowledgement of how cool and hip I am). Anyway, I like to think that the officers have a soft spot for me also (Oh no, it’s Wimsey again! Quick get the ear protectors from the firing range and the drool proof riot shields). And as police officers they have a unique appreciation of my inestimable value (“Can we use him to find the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts?”*). But seriously, it has been a real privilege to get to know these brave men and women. The fact that they pet me, let me drool on them, allow me to stand on my hind legs and snuffle their squad cars and bay back at me through those cool mounted bull horns has absolutely nothing to do with it.

(* New York City doesn’t really have a lot of doughnut shops-- New Yorkers are too calorie conscious to tolerate them. But somehow using me to find the nearest sushi bar just didn’t have the same ring).

Well anyway, in addition to being concerned about my upcoming show appearances, (“Do they disqualify you if your dog is actually gaiting you?” and “Are there other ways to get disqualified that Wimsey knows about and we don’t?”) my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have also been quite concerned about my literary career. It’s been all “Squeaky Lady (see entry # 12) doesn’t seem quite as squeaky lately; do you think she read Wimsey’s blog?” and “Wimsey keeps looking for Booby Lady now that the weather is warmer; he will be very disappointed if she is too embarrassed to cuddle him.” There has been a great concern that people won’t want to talk to me if they fear ending up in my blog. “Now Wimsey you don’t want to end up like Marcel Proust—he used all his friends as characters in his books and look what happened to him-- he had no friends left by the time he died.”

Now this got me thinking about really how very much like Proust I truly am: Proust liked to eat madeleines and I like to eat madeleines (particularly if my humans are eating madeleines); Proust’s father had the macho name of Achille but somehow they decided to name him “Marcel” (I bet he had a lot of fun in the school yard). Now my father also has an ultra cool name (Stetson) and I am called Wimsey—how fair is that. I wonder if Proust had such satiric things to say about everyone to compensate for being called Marcel. (I console myself with the fact that “Rambo’s” name is really Sylvester and the “Terminator” is actually called Arnold. I guess the fact that they survived childhood is testimony to how tough they really are).

But we were speaking of my similarity to Proust, not action heroes (Proust is more like an in-action hero). Now in his seven volume oeuvre Remembrance of Things Past Proust pines for his great love Albertine (really his chauffeur Albert, but they weren’t too keen on guy on guy action in early 20th century France) and I pine for my sultry liver colored Bizzy (see entry #4). Proust likes to digress (sometimes for an entire book!) and I too like to digress. Proust wrote about a guy named Swann and I would like to eat an actual swan (I may get my wish soon if this whole pet food recall thing doesn’t get cleared up—I think the latest plan is for me to eat Timberwolf dog food with elk or bison meat, but I heard Maria tell Elizabeth that she was thinking of procuring a rabbit from Citarella, ((a local gourmet meat shop)) for me. Can a swan be far behind?)

And taking a look at both Proust and myself, I think we are both rather droopy looking characters. Perhaps I should change my name to impress the show judges (Ch. Ewines Ramsey Creek’s Marcel formerly know as Wimsey?)

Anyway, Proust was a sensitive guy and we bloodhounds are nothing if not sensitive, (especially about things that affect our comfort). And of course, very much like Proust, I often find the concept of linear time artistically confining. Now, make no mistake, reading Proust is not for the faint hearted (or those who fall asleep easily)—seven volumes of non-linear time featuring a non-action hero can be a bit much. Some critics even believe that boxes of No-Doz should come with his books, but let’s give the guy credit for turning his life (and unfortunately those of his friends) into one of the great literary masterworks of the 20th century. Kind of like my blog.

Well time to pace off to Central Park in search of some more mammary-based affection. Perhaps I’ll see the Duchesse of Guermantes too.

Until next time,

The Hound Formerly Known as Wimsey