Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 17
May 25, 2007

Hello Everyone! Wimsey here. Well to begin, I’d like to thank my good friend Nanook the Newfy (http://nanookthenewfy.blogspot.com) for nominating me for a Blogger’s Choice Award http://www.bloggerschoiceawards.com/blogs/show/16046).

Now although Nanook is not himself a show dog, I understand that his little brother Pooka is being groomed (quite literally—have you seen the hair on those guys! And my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth think I wreak havoc on the bathroom during bath night; --“Oh look, Wimsey has flung clumps of wet hair onto the ceiling--and we thought he only flung drool”) for the show ring. Well I can hardly wait to tell him about all the fun he is going to have if he follows in my spectacularly oversized paws.

By the way, did I ever mention that I have very large feet? Now I use their generous size and pleasing proportions to create lovely bruise art on the bodies of my humans. Mostly I work in abstracts and like to restrict my palette to purple, black, and greenish yellow, but sometimes my work assumes an oddly representational quality (“Look at this new bruise Wimsey has created—don’t you think that it looks like a sheep?”) Of course the market for bruise art is somewhat limited as it is a quite an ephemeral medium, so I also like to take drab, monochromatic textiles and bring them to life via the application of paw shaped designs. (Wow! Look at those sheets. Wimsey has certainly been very busy today. I wonder if Bloomingdales would be interested in carrying the Wimsey line. I understand there are towels to match”). And of course, I can not only make items of clothing more visually arresting through the use of drool appliqué and paw print batik, but I can also create fresh and exciting new designs through the strategic introduction of new ventilation. (“Oh look at that beautiful Swiss cheese motif Wimsey has introduced into your new t-shirt. It’s such a shame that his creations are one of a kind, but that is always the downside of couture isn’t it.” And “I certainly get a lot of attention when I wear Wimsey, but do you think his designs are too young for me?”) My dream, however, is to dress Angelina Jolie on the red carpet:

Joan Rivers: Here’s Angelina Jolie. Who are you wearing Angelina?

Angelina Jolie: I’m wearing Wimsey, Joan.

Joan Rivers: Fabulous! I understand he only does custom work these days and is much in demand. How did you snare him?

Angelina Jolie: I promised him complete artistic freedom. And a lot of liver.

Joan Rivers: Well it certainly paid off—such a unique and airy look. What was the original color of the dress Angelina?

Angelina Jolie: It was originally pale peach but Wimsey absolutely hated the color—he much prefers earth tones.

JR: So I see. And what are those swatches of color?

AJ: Wimsey believes that newly mown grass is a very flattering color for me.

JR: I see. And tell me about that unusual bodice—it certainly looks cool, but how does it stay up---the straps seem to be hanging off of it.

AJ: Yes, the hanging straps are new from Wimsey this season—he likes the casual, careless look of them.

JR: And look! Here comes Brad and all those children! I can see they are all wearing Wimsey! How ever did you get Brad to wear those crotchless trousers? They’re fabulous!

AJ: Well it took some convincing, but you know Wimsey always believes in showing off his client’s best features.

JR: And what about the children? It almost looks like they are wearing rags! They must have cost a fortune—so much detail work.

AJ: Yes, well here, Wimsey decided to reference the children’s heritage and call attention to world poverty. He has quite a social conscience you now—he’s very vocal about the issue.

JR: Well congratulations on your fashion coup Angelina! I hear Jennifer Anniston is now in Vons buying up liver.

Anyway, I am a Hound of many parts (most of them drool covered) but while I am waiting for my design career to take off, my show ring career continues to take off (literally). Last Saturday I was shown at the Ladies Kennel Club of Oyster Bay (a place we managed to take an unscheduled scenic tour of both coming and going, I might add) and I have to say that I put on a stellar performance—it should definitely net me a Hound of the Year award! I was completely inspired by my last post (see #16) and the entertainment potential of Xtreme Show Handling and I decided to engage in a little test run. Now fortuitously (at least for me) there was a bitch just coming into season in the ring, just like in my Xtreme Show handling TV episode! As you know, I am generally thought to be a pretty modest Hound, but I have to say that I was brilliant that day. First I displayed my entire repertoire of gaits—the gallop, the pace, the trot and my signature trot/pace hybrid, the “trop.” Next, being a truly romantic Hound, I decided to loudly serenade the lovely canine creature who was standing in such tantalizing and leash straining proximity. The judge was most appreciative of my efforts-- although I hear that she is considering adding a pair of Bose noise canceling headphones to her show equipment. And then, not content with my efforts so far, I pulled off my master stroke—I once again invented an entirely new gait! In this one, (which requires superb balance and coordination), the nose stays firmly planted in the grass so as to lovingly inhale and savor every molecule of the beloved’s enchanting scent. To be performed properly, the gait must be executed on the full run to more fully convey the intensity of houndly ardor. The sight of a 125 pound baying, tracking Hound driven wild by love, brought joy to the faces of the crowd and tears to my handler, Elizabeth.

I know Elizabeth really enjoyed handling me in the ring that day. It was all “Well, Wimsey behaved like an idiot! But then again he does have a very romantic nature and when he is in love, I suppose nothing else matters to him.” She was particularly impressed that my degree of infatuation was such that even the dangling of boiled liver proved fruitless. (“That was real devotion on Wimsey’s part; I wish I could find a man who would do that for me.”)

Wimsey’s Tips for Successful Dating:

Make a good first impression: Bathe.

Mind your Manners: Try not to drool on your date.

Make your priorities clear: You’d much rather have sex than eat liver.

Don’t monopolize the conversation: Stop baying occasionally.

Restraint: Don’t paw your date.

Be Honest: It really is all about you.

Anyway, Xtreme show Handling is not the only one of my proposed TV shows that seems to have sprung to life. All My Poop, the soap opera about my eliminatory activities, also seems to be right up there on the life imitates art scale. My humans appear to derive a vast amount of enjoyment and satisfaction from an in depth analysis of my toilet habits. And who am I to disappoint them:

As the Poop Turns: A continuing saga

Elizabeth: Look! Wimsey has begun the Poop Walk! Phase I has begun. (For the uninitiated, Phase I of the poop process begins with the patented Wimsey Poop Walk: I pull really, really hard in a very determined manner, sometimes for quite some time before I move on to Phase II)

Maria: Are you sure Wimsey isn’t just towing? (Sometimes I am just towing for the heck of it and they let me do it because they think it might be a poop walk).

E: No, I think he is looking very poopish—he’s definitely gearing up for something major.

M: Look he’s stopping. Could this be it?

E: No—darn, just a leg lift. How disappointing. I hate when that happens. t’s so anticlimactic.

M: Look! Look! He’s doing the double back—he’s moved into Phase II! (In Phase II, I walk back and forth, to determine if a potential spot is really as appealing as I initially believed; sometimes I am forced to admit that my choice was deeply flawed and I move on. I always like to admit my mistakes and cut my losses—another area of superiority of The Hound)

E: Oh no! Wimsey’s seen another dog. He’s completely forgotten about The Mission (it is true

that I am easily distracted—a dog, a person, an appealing air current will cause me to temporarily suspend operations; sometimes it takes me quite a while to remember what I was doing, which leads to my humans to make pleading noises and to tout the desirability of various alternative locales. But I always remain unmoved; on such an important matter the final choice must be mine alone).

M: OK. He’s back to Phase I.

E: This looks promising—we’ve got a multiple double back.

M: Hurray! He’s begun the spin! Quick move in closer so we don’t miss a moment of this; I have a feeling this is going to be good.

E. Excellent—an outstanding first piece—a nice large size, perfectly formed, ideal consistency, good color. A real quality poop. Let’s see if he can keep it up.

M: Yes, look here it is—another really excellent piece.

E: Careful, he’s traveling a bit—stay with him now!

M: Another fine quality piece. And. yes, he’s done! He’s kicking dirt in my face.

E. Congratulations Wimsey! Well done! (Pats and handshakes all around at this point)

And their enthusiasm never seems to wane. Can you imagine the TV ratings-- not to mention the syndication rights! Of course, I am never permitted to thoroughly examine what they produce. But I am working on it.


Anyway, this Sunday we are in for more fun and games and Xtreme Show Handling at Freehold on the Jersey shore, so another Friday Bath Night looms. I understand that gelato from my favorite new stand, Grom (Broadway and 76th), might be in the offing. There is always a long line, but my humans patiently stand on it because they hate to disappoint me. Being a show dog is a ruff life.

Until next time,

Wimsey

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 16
May 18, 2007

Hello Everyone! It’s me, Wimsey. Well, today I’d like to take as my text, “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop” (it is a little known fact that the taking of texts is not the exclusive province of human clerics and eminent orators -- we Hounds also like to take texts—of course we generally prefer to take them with our teeth, as in “What idiot left my prized copy of Beowulf lying around where Wimsey could shred it!”)

However, no text is as dear to the Hound heart than the one about the idle hands. As you will notice, the text says nothing about idle paws (a moot point, actually, since our paws are never idle, however, much humans may wish they were). Anyway, here in the Wimsey household, idle hands are never permitted, as all hands must continuously be employed in the service of the Hound—either in preparing Hound meals or in boiling up vats of frenzy- inducing show liver or in scratching, caressing, petting stroking, touching or otherwise massaging the Hound. (Next week we will discuss the feet—my text being “These boots (and all other footwear) are made for walking (a large, energetic Hound”).

However, here in Wimsey World, I do make an exception for hands to use the television remote (although I must say that I have to exercise an extraordinary amount of self-control, as there is nothing quite as satisfyingly crunchy to the tooth as a good TV remote, especially the expensive kind). The idea is that whilst my human Maria (and sometimes even Elizabeth, a friend of her hers) are sitting mesmerized by this glowing screen, their inert couch- dwelling bodies provide a warm, cushy medium upon which I can make myself spectacularly comfortable. And of course their hands are totally at my disposal, which means that the devil’s workshop has lost another round to the Hound. (Note: although somewhat similar in appearance, the television is completely different from the vile computer, which I have it on good authority is actually manufactured in the devils workshop-- as are all things that distract from the Hound).

Now although my humans spend an inordinate amount of time looking at the TV, they seem never to like very many of the shows that are actually on it. (A very perplexing state of affairs to a Hound, as we never do anything that is less than completely enjoyable. It’s what makes us so delightful to live with). But this week my humans were particularly distressed by the less than stellar offerings that the networks announced for their next season. As you might surmise, I am in favor of nothing that will cut down the number of couch dwelling, hound rubbing hours, so I am thinking of launching the Wimsey Network to keep human posteriors where they belong—on the couch. (With me in charge, the casting couch will take on a whole new meaning)

Upcoming Shows on the Wimsey Television Network

First, let me say that if you thought that Heather Mills was handicapped by dancing on one leg, that’s nothing compared to what will happen to the stars on my new show-- all of whom will be handicapped because they will be Dancing with the Hounds! Now doing anything with a Hound is never very easy, but dancing presents a particular challenge as the hounds invent new dances such as the Really, Really Quick Step and the Cha Cha Drool! Contestants who make mistakes in the choreography will be bayed at and given encouraging little nips.

Next we have a classic quiz show, Stump the Hounds. In this show, humans will win vast sums of money because, let’s face it, Hounds are just not all that bright. Also the only category permitted will be “The Tudors.”

Now the next show is a soap opera/ reality series called All My Poop. In this show, much drama and excitement are generated by the suspense of seeing what emerges as endless food recalls and multiple changes in diet wreak havoc on a Hound’s digestion. (“Come quick I think, Wimsey is looking for a spot to poop—what color will it be this time? And what consistency—solid, liquid or something completely new that Wimsey has invented?? I can hardly wait to see!)

Another Wimsey creation: Lost –For a While. Hounds are stranded on a desert island (they thought they were going to a “dessert” island). After digging some holes and chasing some monkeys, they get bored, put their noses to the ground and go home.

Hound Anatomy: A group of high spirited Hound pranksters invade an urban hospital, replace all the medical texts and equipment with veterinary ones, perform life saving surgery on small, appealing children and conduct torrid affairs in the supply closet. They are finally ejected when even they refuse to eat the hospital food.

Human Whisperer: Follow renowned human trainer Wimsey Milan as he corrects such undesirable human behaviors as going to work, guarding food and furniture and refusing to walk for eight hours.

CSI: The Hound Squad: A hard-bitten senior Hound’s new partner is a misfit rookie Hound who is disturbingly quiet, intelligent, obedient, and odorless. Episode One: the rookie is reluctant to fling drool at perps.

Hound Trekker: A travelogue in which we follow Wimsey around the world in his exciting quest to find the perfect place to poop.

Psychic Hound: A Hound develops the uncanny ability to predict the future and uses his powers to manipulate human beings (alternative title: Ordinary Hound).

Desperate Hound Owners: Four unnaturally thin and beautiful older women in the tight knit community of Hound View struggle to find dates who don’t mind drool, stench, baying and the presence of a 125 pound dog in the bed.

Hound of the Baskervilles: A situation comedy in which the Baskerville family’s mischievous Hound delights in playing tricks on Mr. Doyle, the mystery writer who lives next door.

Extreme Makeover: Hound Edition: A deserving family receives the gift of a Hound who proceeds to redecorate and re-landscape their property in spectacular fashion.


But really, the crown jewel of the Wimsey Network (no, not the ones that attract such human male admiration on the street) is the new sports show: Xtreme Show Handling:

Al Michaels: Al Michaels and John Madden here in our show ring sky booth bringing you all the drama, sex and violence of Xtreme Show Handling right into your living room. Things could get a little bloody here folks, so this may not be a show for the kids.

John Madden: That’s right Al, and today’s action should provide plenty of excitement. All eyes today will be on Wimsey—he’s the wild card in the group, capable of anything or nothing—it all depends on which Wimsey decides to show up. And of course everyone is eager to know whether he will debut his illegal signature move the trop . I should add for those of you at home who are new to the sport, that the trop is neither a trot nor a pace and the Wimsey team has been lobbying show officials to make the trop an officially sanctioned gait. As you know, Wimsey is the only one who can execute this difficult maneuver correctly and its use would give him an enormous advantage over his competitors.

Al: A very astute observation, Dave. Now let’s get right to the action-- the Hounds have entered the ring and Wimsey is the first to stack. Let’s watch. Here’s his handler Elizabeth in her trademark Wimsey Green pants (as an aside Dave, where do you think these folks buy their clothes! Remind me to make sure my wife never shops there). OK. Look! Elizabeth is reaching for the front left leg to begin. That’s a bit uncharacteristic for her, isn’t it Dave.

Dave: That’s right Al, but I understand from watching her practice sessions that she’s committed to trying some fantastically innovative techniques here.

Al: OK! OK! She’s got the stack, but will Wimsey hold it?! You know he’s been known to disagree with her as to the placement of his feet and he can be pretty vocal about his opinions.

Dave: You’re telling me, Al—I still have ear damage from his last outburst. But right now all eyes are on Wimsey. Yes! Yes! He’s held the stack! What do you think Al, does this say anything about how he will gait?

Al: Unclear Dave. Unclear. One minute! Hold on! I understand the judge has just dropped a bombshell She’s asking for the triangle and not the down and back! This team has been practicing the down and back all week—I don’t think they’ve focused on the triangle at all. This is a huge miscalculation. What will they do…Hold on yes, there’s the liver; they’re going to go for it!

Dave: You can hear a pin drop out there. What do you think, Al.—has she got him worked up enough over the liver to really take command or has she over done it.

Al: Let’s see. He’s flinging quite a bit of drool—that could be bad. And they’re off! Oh no! Wimsey has decided to gallop; Elizabeth is struggling to take back on him; he’s not responding! This looks bad, Dave. Can she keep her footing! The crowd is on its feet—this must have been what it was like in the Roman amphitheaters, Dave. No! No! She’s down! The crowd is roaring for her to release the leash! Ouch, that looks nasty! I think we’ve seen the last of those ugly green pants Dave—those blood stains don’t look like they’re going to wash out anytime soon. But she continues to hang on! No! No! Hold it! She s dropped the lead Dave! Wimsey’s off! He’s charging. Wait! He’s suddenly stopped. Something’s caught his eye.

Dave: Look! He’s mounting the pretty bitch who was standing next to him! A little unorthodox perhaps, but I must say, I admire his taste. She’s a beauty. We’re just getting word from ringside that she’s won here two years in a row, so he’s certainly got a good eye for the ladies. Count on Wimsey to always put on a good show! No wonder the crowd loves him. Does he get disqualified for this by the way Al?

Al: Well this is an Xtreme show ring Dave. The potential for this kind of thing is what sells the tickets. I expect Wimsey’s earned an Award of Merit. And also pick of the litter.


Anyway, I certainly think my shows sounds more entertaining than the ones they’ve just announced—like a series about the cavemen from the Geico ad. What’s next—the love life of Betty Crocker?

Well in any case, there will be no TV watching tonight—it is another exciting Wimsey Bath Night and I understand that there is a 24 inch bully stick with my name on it. I am showing in Oyster Bay tomorrow which means that Elizabeth will once again get to wear the ugly green pants and Maria will have to overcome her crippling fear of the Cross Bronx Expressway (I intend to reassure her by whispering drool- laden encouragement in her ear). And best of all, one of the ladies will finally have to learn to pump gas—another new and useful skill they will have learned because of me. And of course, I will get to do whatever I want. As always.

Stay tuned.

Wimsey

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 15
May 11, 2007

Hello everyone. Wimsey here. Well it’s been quite a busy week here at Manhattan Hound Headquarters. Now, as you know, no one is ever likely to accuse me of excessively praising my human Maria or Elizabeth (a friend of hers), so when they actually get something right it is quite a shock to the system. Last Friday night was Wimsey Bath Night (and they wonder why they are still single) and weeks of preparation went into making the event a success:

How to Bathe a Hound
By Wimsey, Manhattan’s foremost stinky Bloodhound

1. Completely line your bathroom and bathtub with an enormous number of rubber mats so as to insure that the delicate hound foot is never required to come into contact with the cold, smooth tile.

2. Purchase a spa shower massage attachment to relax those aching Hound muscles-- made tense by endless strolls through Central Park and prolonged bouts of napping on the couch (Author’s note: I only nap when there are no humans around to harass, so they never actually see me engage in this activity. But they have heard rumors).

3. Buy a bottle of the most expensive, non-detergent herbal dog shampoo you can find (clearly by the miniscule size of the bottle, my lap sitting activities have successfully convinced my humans that I am in fact a small dog; it took almost the entire bottle of the stuff to bathe me; Maria claims she forgot how large I am).

4. During bath operations encourage Hound compliance by feeding large quantities of turkey.

5. Dry Hound with a prolonged, four handed fluffy towel massage. Under no circumstances even think about getting out the blow dryer. You will be sorry. Trust me. I know.

6. Provide Hound with an extremely large bully stick whilst he continues to air dry, supine on the living room carpet.

7. Consume a strong cocktail while heaping praise upon the Hound.

Well, as you can see the bath went off pretty well, at least from my point of view. The humans got rather moist themselves, although they claim that it was never their intention to also get a bath. And Elizabeth has been complaining that her apartment still bears the distinctive aroma of Wet Wimsey.

I am also pleased to report that the dog show in Trenton on Sunday was equally successful. The ladies only got lost once and as usual I had to make several forays to the front seat to supervise driving operations. I have often thought that I would have made an excellent driving instructor:

Driving Instructor Wimsey: I am Wimsey your driving instructor. Don’t be nervous, I don’t bite. Please execute a right hand turn and parallel park in front of the Pet Market. Very nice. Now make a three point turn over to Kenneth the Weimaraner Puppy on the left hand corner. Excellent. Now please accelerate rapidly past the veterinarian’s. OK. Now make a u-turn and pull up in front of that fire hydrant. Activate your hazard lights; I have something to take care of. Good. You may now drive slowly through the Park Drive and hang your head out of the window.

Well once we finally found Trenton, we had a beautiful day and Elizabeth took me into the ring wearing trousers in the equally beautiful Wimsey Green (green being the color that shows off my rich red color to its greatest advantage, though, sad to say, the same cannot be said of Elizabeth’s tush —Wimsey fashion tip: if you are in possession of a prominent caboose, green is not your color). Now once in the ring, Elizabeth inadvertently got me a tad too riled up, teasing me with liver and such, so I responded with great enthusiasm by taking off with her around the ring at a joyous gallop. (Wimsey Warning: incitement of liver lust can be hazardous to your health.) I was of course supposed to trot, but I thought I looked splendid anyway-- the gallop being second only to the pace, as my favorite gait. Of course, failure to get me sufficiently riled up results in me pacing in this remarkably ugly manner that Maria has dubbed “FrankenDog.” So really she pretty much loses either way. But that is just part of the joy of showing me! I imagine it must be enormously entertaining to watch someone walk into the ring with a 125 pound hound using a string for a leash and not knowing exactly what he is going to do; only what he is capable of (although I am told that showing dogs is not generally considered a blood sport). Elizabeth says she thinks dog shows should have gin and tonic stands.

Anyway, I didn’t win anything (perhaps because Elizabeth took about ten minutes to stack me --“My calipers indicate that Wimsey’s back left leg should be a centimeter to the right but I think 1.5 centimeters would be better ,…”), but that hardly dampened my high hound spirits—after all, it was not my fault that I lost. Nothing ever is, which is part of the beauty of being a Hound (“Oh no! Wimsey has ripped up the chair cushions again—who was the idiot who left them out?” and so forth).

Now I have to say, that the highlight of Trenton was not the actual dog show—it was the prolonged and well attended concert that I gave for the attendees. Inspired by the magnificent weather, I was in such fine voice that I was pretty much mobbed wherever I went. Now if Pavarotti or Marc Anthony (I wonder if J-Lo’s rump is as big as Elizabeth’s?) or someone suddenly appeared in the middle of a field and started singing, people would come running to listen to them and that is exactly what happened to me. Like Pavarotti I am a powerful singer and my melodious voice carries over long distances. Should I ever be called upon to grace the stage of the Metropolitan Opera at Lincoln Center there certainly would never be any question of having to mike me. Nor of the upper tiers not receiving the full benefit of my performance (I bet I could even fling drool into the cheap seats). However, although I have always felt I would make a splendid Rudolfo, I am apparently not a tenor like Pavarotti; I have it on good authority (my new Central Park friend, Iola’s human is an opera singer) that I am more of a baritone, so I guess I would have to settle for singing Rigoletto--although who ever heard of a hunchbacked bloodhound. (How can there be an opera about a bat—Der Fledermaus—and not about a Bloodhound!?)

But anyway, my singing was particularly fine in Trenton and I received a favorable notice in the Trenton Times—we artists always enjoy getting a good review and it is encouraging to know that my singing is appreciated even in the distant provinces, where my humans worried that artistic taste might not be as finely honed as it is in the sophisticated precincts of New York City. After all, they reasoned, can people who do not dress in black and who eat primitive foods like funnel cakes really appreciate Wimsey’s singing?

Now on the subject of funnel cakes, it turns out that Elizabeth, having actually never had one, decided to expand her culinary horizons and try one. (Of course she originally thought they were “fennel cakes” and marveled at the sophisticated palate of the resident Trentonians –“perhaps it is because they are a state capital?”). She had in fact been warned by Maria that consuming a funnel cake was seriously inadvisable and likely to prove a significant impediment to comfortable digestion. But it was all “Look Maria, the natives are all eating funnel cakes and none of them are rolling on the ground. How bad can they be?” Well the answer to that one is pretty bad as it turns out, and I speak from personal experience. I too had never had a funnel cake and the piece I was offered came flying out of my mouth quicker than pills at the vet’s. Yuck. We Wimseys pride ourselves on our well trained palate (the only thing about us that is well trained, I might add) and this glob of fried dough and powdered sugar was truly disgusting. Of course Elizabeth ate all of hers. And had a stomachache. And she thinks that I am not very bright?

But from my human’s point of view an even greater triumph awaited us when we returned to New York: Elizabeth successfully parallel parked the car-- an achievement clearly on par with the moon landing (and occurring just as frequently). Elizabeth gave credit for this astonishing feat to her father, whose voice she claimed to hear in her head yelling “Cut the wheel! Cut the wheel!).

Now for our next show (Oyster Bay, New York May 19th, http://www.infodog.com/clubs/2007161902.HTM) the ladies will have to confront the Great Gas Problem (no, not my intestines, that is the Other Great Gas Problem--which for me it is not a problem at all. Producing noxious odors is just another weapon in the Hound Armamentarium aimed at preventing humans from ignoring me), as gas stations in New York, unlike those in the more civilized reaches of New Jersey, are self service. But I am hoping that pumping gas will be just another one of the many new and useful skills my humans are acquiring because of me, Professor Wimsey the Education Bloodhound. For instance, both women are now capable of opening a pack of string cheese (see entry # 11), a major culinary achievement. Maria can now successfully boil liver—an even greater culinary achievement as it entails the use of the stove, a wholly foreign and generally mysterious appliance containing many knobs and dials. Elizabeth has become quite the fashionista—of green clothing. And as for driving, Maria has learned to drive with a perfect view of a giant hound head in her rear view mirror. I have high hopes for the pumping of gasoline. Stay tuned.

Finally, it has also been an eventful week in France. Now we Wimseys are very proud of our French heritage, having been brought to Europe by French knights (see entry # 8) and so I follow events in the mother country rather closely. Now everything about the French always seems more stylish, even their elections. It was the Chic Lady versus the Tough Guy, like one of their movies (except in those they would have fallen in love, left the governing of France to less attractive people and run off to the Seychelles together). And purely in the spirit of honoring my heritage during election week I stuck my tongue into Elizabeth’s mouth to stop her from talking about things that have nothing to do with me. Personally, I like to think that The Bloodhound invented the French kiss which was then misappropriated by humans for completely other purposes.

OK, am now off to steal some French fries.

Until next week,

Wimsey, the non-show dog.

Tagged

Nanook tagged me. I have no clear photos of my tummy, Maria's camera is so loud that when she turns it on, I wake up. I'm afraid these will have to do.


Ooops, wrong photo! Better not let Maria see this.

Here's some tummy, and a "Wimsey Green" bone. Do you think that'll catch on?

And just a little more, a tease of tummy if you will.

So, who shall I tag? Hmmmmmmm. Of course, the incomparable Sophie, my bud Boomer, and, from down under,the pulling King, Texas.

Wimsey's Blog:Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 15
May 4th 2007

Hello everyone, it’s me Wimsey! As you can see I am experimenting with a new font and size for my diary. My human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have also been very preoccupied with fonts this week as it seems that since I am becoming such an important character I am to have my own business cards!

For all those font fanatics out there, it has been decided that Comic Sans is the Official Wimsey Font-- which, considering my propensity for playing jokes, (mostly of the painful physical kind), seems particularly appropriate. There appears also to be a font called “Baskerville” (as in hound of) and one called “Whimsy.” (I hate when people misspell my name). Now whilst neither of these fonts was deemed to have the requisite aesthetic appeal, their use was tempting nevertheless as they would have made a terrific “in joke”—assuming that I should ever have to give my card to an actual graphic artist, that is!

Now apparently it is not only graphic artists who know about fonts—it turns out that Maria is a veritable “font of knowledge” herself. Why? Who knows? It is not exactly like she is setting type in her apartment. She is very passionate about fonts-- she says they are fascinating (??!!) –second only to hounds, in fact. (I will magnanimously not comment on being compared to a font, but I have a gob of drool with her name on it). It was all, “Now Wimsey, don’t criticize. After all you find peeing on flowers interesting and I don’t. We are all different. Diversity makes life more interesting.” (funny how humans are so big on diversity yet they all pretty much look and act the same. Perhaps they should take a lesson from the Hound and breed some really big shaggy ones and some really small, smooth ones and maybe they could even develop some that bay properly or spin before they poop ((it is a little known fact that poop cannot happen without the spin—something to do with centrifugal force, I believe)). But of course life would be a lot more interesting if Maria would learn how to pump gas instead of studying fonts.

Oddly enough it was actually Elizabeth who selected the Comic Sans font and then called Maria to tell her the exiting news. Well, there was such squealing and squeaking that you would have thought that I had won Westminster! Actually, it turns out that, unbeknownst to Elizabeth (who in contrast doesn’t know a seraph from a sausage and thinks all fonts look pretty much the same) she had inadvertently selected Maria’s favorite font. Now anyone who cares enough about fonts to actually have a favorite one is in serious need of a life. How on earth am I ever going to find her a boyfriend?

Wingman Wimsey: Hello there nice smelling studly fellow who doesn’t mind clothes splotched with drool. May I introduce you to my human, Maria. She loves romantic walks on the beach, candlelight dinners and fonts.

I mean really. And not that Elizabeth is all that much better. She can tell you what Catherine of Aragon liked to eat for breakfast but doesn’t have the least idea how to operate a needle and thread; she even has to go to a tailor to get buttons sewn back on :

Tailor: But Madam, it’s only a button.

Elizabeth: I know. But can it be fixed?

They are quite a pair these two, no wonder they appreciate me so much—I can do so many useful things, like forcing them to focus on something other than fonts and Tudors, for instance.

Unlike my humans, we Hounds are nothing if not practical: if we see a vertical surface, we pee on it, if we see a human with two hands we poke at them to pet us, if we see something we fancy, we bay at it, if humans sit down, we sit on them, if they eat, we stick our noses in their food, if food appears in our food bowl, we sniff at it and give our humans a disdainful glance for failing to provide the filet mignon portion of the meal.

But having said all this, Maria is actually quite an excellent owner of a Hound (Elizabeth says this is because she doesn’t know any better having only had hounds instead of proper dogs).

The Wimsey Primer on Hound Ownership:

An owner of a Hound:

● Must be intelligent (someone has to be)

● Must have a sense of humor and think being humiliated is fun

● Must not mind coming in a distant third behind a Hound’s nose and stomach

● Must enjoy the sound of houndly concertizing

● Must not mind living in a drool coated abode

● Must not like designer clothing

● Must have a really good dry cleaner

● Must enjoy the fragrant and lingering odor of eau de hound that wafts everywhere the Hound has been

● Must not expect their commands to be taken seriously

● Must not mind the presence of the Hound’s nose, jowls and ears in their cereal bowls (we frequently don’t actually want to eat the food, just to smell it)

● Must enjoy the sights and sounds of shredding paper and fabric-- an important Hound hobby

● Must be guided in all things by the needs and requirements of The Hound


But I digress (Just like Marcel Proust! See entry # 14). We were originally talking about my business cards. Now that I have business cards and can be contacted, I am sure that all kinds of important people will be calling me for advice:

Secretary: Wimsey, here are today’s messages:

President Bush called: His terrier Barney ate the latest Middle East peace treaty—he wants to know if he should be punished. Also, if you have any ideas about how to get out of out of Iraq, he’d appreciate it.

Jacques Chirac called. He wants to know if you think he should vote Sego or Sarko.

Mayor Bloomberg called. Someone has been peeing on the flower beds in Central Park; he wants to know if you have any idea who that could be. Also someone is making cheap knock offs of the statue of Balto—he wants you to investigate.

Mark Burnett called. He wants to know if you have any interest in being on the next Survivor—the castaways need help finding food.

Donald Trump called. He wants to know if you will snuffle all the Miss USA contestants to see if they are using drugs. Also, he wants to know where you get your hair groomed.

Angelina Jolie called. She’s thinking about collecting Hounds instead of third world children and wants to know what you think.

Condoleeza Rice called. She wants to know if you’d consider being her wingman. Also she wants to know if you think peeing on Iran’s nuclear reactors would put them out of commission.

Tom Cruise called (Again) he wants to talk to you about scientology and how it can enhance your career.

Cesar Milan called—he wants to know if you want to book a session (I tossed this one out)

Oh yes, and Maria’s mother called. She wants you to stop making fun of her daughter. Also she said to say that Lucida Sans Unicode is a better font than Comic Sans.

I can hardly wait until my card is in everyone’s rolodex (electronic of course, I hate paper—it’s why I shred anything made of the stuff)!

Well before I return to the couch for more beauty rest, I just wanted to say that my show preparations are proceeding at a frenetic pace. It has been decided that Elizabeth is going to be my first show ring victim—she will be showing me in Trenton on Sunday and she is quite busy selecting suitable show ring attire (including shoes that she thinks will help keep her upright when I take off with her); Maria is boiling up fresh liver and both ladies think they are going to bathe me themselves before the show. That should be a show in itself. I have the feeling that I will have quite a lot to say next week!

Until then,

I remain,

Wimsey: a dog with business cards