Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 25
July 27, 2007

Hello everyone. Wimsey here. Well, this has been an exceedingly fun week. I have once again found newer and better ways to impose my majestic presence upon the lives of my humans (Maria and her friend Elizabeth). Of course it’s not always easy being the center of the universe for a pair of New York women, but I look at this way: if they were not obsessing about me then they would be obsessing about useless things such as the size of their apartments (too small), their figures (too big) or the numbers of eligible men (too few). So how much better and healthier to have me at the center of their lives instead. As far as I am concerned small apartments are very desirable as there are fewer escape routes from me, a larger figure simply means I have cushier lounging options and unlike men, I will never stand them up (just stand up on them) or have commitment problems—I am all about commitment-- so long as it is me that I am committed to. Also I am a whole lot cuter.

As I have said before, all this focus on me is quite similar to being a celebrity. I am like the star of my own network of exciting TV shows.

Wimsey Bath Night: A show that asks the question can two single women without Friday night dates find happiness and fulfillment washing a large smelly hound.

Flip this House (and its contents): A home decorating show in which Wimsey, an artistic interior decorating bloodhound shows viewers how to use existing furniture and accessories to create dramatic new looks for their homes.

How Happy Am I? (rated R): Wimsey, an un-neutered male bloodhound uses the length and width of his natural endowments to review and rate events in his immediate vicinity.

ER: Having successfully battled a flamboyantly bleeding elbow, Wimsey has mysteriously acquired a cut on his pad. Watch as he battles his heroic nurses in their efforts to soak his foot. (“Six of Versed stat! And get the restraints!”)

Psycho: Psychiatrists are called in to deal with Wimsey’s rebellion and bad behavior brought on by the sudden reduction in his physical activity due to his cut pad.

Hell’s Kitchen: Watch as executive canine chefs Maria and Elizabeth strive to create new recipes with which to bribe Wimsey so they can soak his foot.

So as you may have surmised, this week’s major news is the cut on my pad which necessitated a lively visit to the vet’s office. Now even in those august precincts, I managed to make myself the center of attention—dumping out the water from a large plastic dish so I could play with it and leaving a trail of biscuits bits throughout the waiting area. Rock stars trash hotel rooms, I trash vet’s offices. And since we are all such good customers, all is forgiven, (being a celebrity is just like being a Hound—the rules don’t apply to you). All of my office trashing activities is probably why the vet chuckled heartily as he explained how my pad should be soaked three times a day for several minutes (he’s thinking: “If Wimsey can do this to my office just for the hell of it, just imagine what he’ll do to Maria’s apartment when he’s really riled up”).

Anyway since I can’t engage in my afternoon runs Elizabeth has stepped in to take me out for a midday tow. Then I get to hang out at her place for the rest of the day. Now my human Maria has most ungenerously stripped her home of anything even remotely chewable, tearable or eatable but Elizabeth’s apartment is entirely virgin territory, so to speak. Adding to the fun, she periodically gets business calls during which decorum dictates that she refrain from hollering: “Wimsey stop that!” or “Wimsey go away!” or “Wimsey don’t do that!” or “Wimsey get your nose out of there!” or my personal favorite “Wimsey get off of me!” When one of these calls comes through, I swing into action and she just has to pretend it’s all not happening. (Note: wild gesticulations are a singularly ineffective means of Hound Control).

Now in past posts I have discussed at length the major principles of Houndship such as rule # 1: it’s all about me. But I realized whilst hanging out with Elizabeth that I have neglected to mention an important Hound activity. Smearing. Now generally we Hounds do not willingly part with our stuff and sharing is not really in our nature. But the one thing we Hounds do in fact like to share is our delightful fragrance. This is accomplished by artfully smearing our jowls on humans and their possessions (or what they think are their possessions, since everything is really the property of the Hound) such that our odor is indelibly transferred. Sometimes in a fit of generosity, we also throw in a little dirt and kibble. Now upon entering Elizabeth’s apartment I noticed a distinct and unpleasant odorless quality which I set about to remedy immediately. In the process I also imbued her heretofore pristine walls with a most skillful faux finish. Much more attractive (“Oh look what an unusual wall treatment; where did you get it done?”)

Of course because Elizabeth is spending so much time with me she now has the bruises to prove it. (“Gee maybe Elizabeth should take out a restraining order against Wimsey enjoining him from getting within 20 feet of her”). But it isn’t t my fault if humans are simply not as robust as we Hounds. It is all in my genes so if anyone is to blame it is Watson & Crick. The forces of evolution cannot be denied.

The Evolution of the Hound.

Once upon a time there was a pack of wild canids who expended vast quantities of energy hunting un-cooperative prey items and fighting each other to establish a dominance hierarchy. ProtoHound thought this was a colossal waste of time and energy, so one day he wandered into the camp of weird creatures who were missing half their legs and had no sense of smell. They couldn’t even smell him coming, which was pretty pathetic. Also, they seemed to toss out some of the best bits of a kill—bones, gristle and such. Ever mindful of the ecological effects of waste, ProtoHound generously began to dispose of the these wasteful leavings. Then one day some young females of the group spotted him. “He’s so cute!” they squealed. “Here give him this piece of meat.” and “Look he likes it when we stroke him.” At that moment the chief of the group came along. “Why are you feeding and petting that useless animal? He drools and he smells.” But at that very moment the ProtoHound caught a whiff of a delectable, juicy animal. But what to do? The pack was nowhere nearby. He looked at the chief. Now he didn’t look like he could run very fast and he didn’t seem to have much in the way of sharp teeth, but he was carrying a long pointy thing that might come in handy. So ProtoHound poked at the chief with his muzzle and induced the chief to follow him until they found the juicy animal. There was much feasting that evening. The Chief acknowledged that ProtoHound was not useless but a fine hunter, even if he drooled, smelled and was flatulent. And choruses of meat bearing ladies squealing “He’s so cute” rang out long into the night. And the rest is history.

Anyway, so much for pre-history. Tonight is real history in the making—it is Wimsey Bath Night and my humans are going to try to see if they can soak my foot as part of the bath process. Will I comply? There is a pound of turkey in the refrigerator that says I just might. And if not, there are always the cocktails.

Until next time,

Wimsey The Lame But No Less Pesky

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 24
July 20, 2007

Hello Everyone. It’s me, Wimsey. Well it’s been quite a stormy week here in the Great Metropolis and like most of my kind, I object to being pelted with water from above-- it’s like being forced to take an unscheduled bath. It’s the human equivalent of going outside for what you think is a nice, pleasant walk and getting a root canal instead. Humans would be mighty put out, I can tell you. A species that objects to entirely modest amounts of drool, hair and stench would have serious issues with surprise root canals, I can tell you.

But anyway, along with the rain there has been all of this thunder. Now my human Maria’s friend Elizabeth has explained to me about lightening and the transfer of electrons, blah, blah (when electrons start to be mentioned, it is definitely time for me to try and insert a large hound tongue into her mouth—a most effective weapon against her excessive loquacity) and about how thunder is really just a compression wave caused by the rapid and sudden expansion of air heated by the lightening. Good. So the next time I compress her vital organs with my tush I will just explain that the pain she feels is caused by the sudden stimulation of her nociceptors in response to the sudden application of a 125lb. tush on her sensory neurons. Knowing what causes something doesn’t make it any less obnoxious. Besides everyone knows that thunder is really caused by the baying of the Great Hound God who is displeased with humanity for trying to assert itself over his devoted minions. The way to get his baying to stop is the same way as to get me stop—give me what I want. (of course this will not affect my most recent vocal styling—the Triumphant Bay. I employ the Triumphant Bay when I “find” someone—like when Elizabeth comes out of her apartment building to meet me. Triumphant bays have a slightly higher pitch than the other kinds and are more prolonged—this is an especially important attribute as they are most often executed in close proximity to an ear ((another excellent way to make my humans squeal in pain)). Other bays in my vast repertoire by the way, include the “hello, come play with me” bay, the “where do you think you are going” bay, the “give that to me” bay, the “give that to me now” bay, the “traffic light has stopped our walk” bay, and the forceful “I am seriously peeved” bay. But I digress. As I was saying, thunder is caused by the displeasure of the Great Hound God.


Mount Olympus

Zeus: Gather round everyone. Today we welcome a new god to our pantheon. He is called Droule and he is the Great Hound God.

Hera: Look how cute he is!

Hermes (no not the seller of scarves, ties and leather goods costing the GNP of small nations, but the god better known as Mercury): I am the winged messenger. My attribute is my winged helmet. What is Droule’s attribute?

Zeus: His excessively long ears. They enable him to fly about with great agility. Also, he uses them to collect dirt and water to fling at disobedient humans when he ear whips them. His secondary attribute is his enormous nose, which is wet and cold and he uses it to poke people in startlingly inconvenient places.

Ares (also known as Mars): So is he a mighty god of punishment like me?

Zeus: No, he is more like a Mighty God of Extreme Peskiness.

Athena: And does he impart wisdom like me?

Zeus: Well he imparts quite a bit of dirt, kibble and drool if that helps. Hair too, I understand. The short spiky kind that sticks to your face and makes you feel like a porcupine. But mostly it seems that humans impart things to him-- like time, money and possessions.

Poseidon: I can command the seas. What can he command?

Zeus: Well pretty much everything else. Even the gods. You’ll notice that Hera has just fed him her dinner.

Hera: But he’s so cute!

Aphrodite: Can he inspire great love like I can?

Zeus: You have no idea. At least when humans fall in love with each other, they get something in return.

Apollo: But can he sing and beguile the humans like me?

Zeus: Well he does sing quite a bit. But it’s kind of painful really. You see he creates these compression waves…


And of course, what would a Great Hound God be without a Hound Oracle:

Supplicant: Oh Great Hound Oracle please accept my offering.

Hound Oracle: What have you brought me?

Supplicant: A lovely piece of brisket Your Houndiness.

Hound Oracle: Ah, a New York supplicant.

Supplicant: Please advise me. My boyfriend dumped me. Will I ever find love?

Hound Oracle: Rub my belly to facilitate my connection with the Mighty Hound God and I will consult him on your behalf….Yes. The Hound God does see love in your future. He is black and tan, has big feet and enjoys the consumption of roast meats. Give him these in moderation otherwise up you will upset his stomach. If you are foolish enough to still pine for the other kind of love the Hound God suggests a shorter, more angled hair style. Also, he says red is not your color. Next!

Supplicant 2: I beseech the guidance of The Hound God, Oh Great Oracle.

Hound Oracle: What have you brought me?

Supplicant 2: A carton of Grom gelato.

Hound Oracle. Very nice. The Mighty Hound God is pleased. What is your question?

Supplicant 2: It’s my Hound. He has eaten three couches.

Hound Oracle: Scratch me behind my ears to focus my concentration as I commune with
the Mighty Hound God…Hmm. The Mighty Hound God wants to know how many hours you walk your Hound.

Supplicant 2: Four hours per day your Wise Houndship.

Hound Oracle: Only four hours? And you are surprised that he eats couches. The Hound God counsels 8 hours, four times a day. Also look into tatami mats. They are better for your back and cheaper. Next!

Supplicant 3: “Sit.” submissive hound oracle.

Hound Oracle: In your dreams. What have you bought me?

Supplicant 3: I am Cesar Milan. I am calm and assertive and bring you rules, boundaries and limitations.

Huge clap of thunder. A bolt of lightening Cesar Millan vanishes.

Hound Oracle: No one messes with The Mighty Hound God!

And in case you’ve failed to notice, we Hounds are quite delightfully transaction oriented. Virtually everything concerning a Hound has a cost: (“Oh look, Wimsey only charged me a 10 minute belly rub to let me put on his walking equipment; I guess he really had to go out”)


Hound Store:

Today’s sales:

Item on sale: price

Intact (mostly) couch: One 3 hour walk
Un-molested dinner: 1 roast chicken with yams
Un-stolen dinner: 2 roast chickens with yams
Sleeping past dawn: 1 hour bed cuddling
Shoes: 5 rawhide bones
Towels without holes 5 stuffed toys
Underwear without holes Priceless



But of course back in classical times there would also have had to be various exquisite marble temples dedicated to the worship of the Hound (today we call these “homes.”) and a flatteringly anatomically correct statute by Praxiteles to encourage further Hound worship—not to mention offerings of the Athenian equivalent of brisket which the temple Hounds would put to good use.

But generally speaking, there are some very sound reasons why people worship Hounds. Hounds are aspirational. Who would not desire to be unconditionally loved, cossested and admired no matter how much damage and chaos they brought to those around them? Who would not aspire to our absolute and unconditional sense of entitlement, our unequivocal view of the world as having been created expressly for out benefit? And who would not like to live in an environment where actions have no consequences, excuses were always made for us and we could do just as we pleased whenever we pleased. (“Look at the that Wimsey—running around with not a stitch on, peeing on anything he feels like, goosing people’s bottoms, lounging about having meals prepared for him; and everyone is continuously concerned for his comfort and welfare…) In fact, being a Hound is a lot like being Madonna (and not the Biblical one either): The Hound is the Ultimate Celebrity (but without the rehab and the third world children). So is it any wonder that people worship and admire us as they do the celebrities in their midst?

Well, time to go--it should be a beautiful weekend here in The City (New Yorkers always refer to New York as The city (no one has broken it to them yet that there are others) and I will be strolling around Central Park being admired and having my picture taken quite as usual—all of which is expected keep Great Hound God blissfully silent.

Until next time,

Wimsey,
Admired by all, beholden to none, (except of course The Great Hound God)

Wimsey's Blog:Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 23
July 13, 2007

Hello everyone, it’s me, Wimsey. I just noticed that today is Friday 13th, which people think is unlucky.

Things that can happen to a human on Friday 13th

▪Your leather couch becomes a giant rawhide
▪Your stuffed couch becomes a giant stuffed toy
▪Your best shoes end up looking like shoe laces
▪Garden transformation: landscape to moonscape
▪Friday dinner party food is magically converted into Friday dinner party leftovers
▪Your books are transformed into scrap paper
▪Your feather pillows become just feathers

But wait—these things happen to humans every day in the presence of a Hound! But my humans always feel a lot better about it if it happens on Friday the thirteenth (“Well of course Wimsey ate the bed. It’s Friday the thirteenth!”)

So why do we Hounds do it? As a matter of principle destruction is a lot of fun and we Hounds are all about fun (of course we would be happy to repair all of our damage except that we conveniently lack opposable thumbs). But also we like to feel that we serve a Higher Purpose by improving the human race. Detaching it from the evils of materialism and all that. From each according to his abilities (humans to provide stuff) and to each according to his need (Hounds to destroy stuff). Now normally I am not a proponent of Marxism when it comes to Human-Human relations, but for Human- Hound relations it actually works surprisingly well. But somehow I don’t think that Karl Marx would have approved of being relegated to being a great Hound philosopher. As far as I can determine from the books of his that I have eaten, he did not have much of a sense of humor and took himself rather seriously. Taking oneself seriously is another human failing that Hounds were put on this earth to combat: (God created the earth in 6 days, rested on the seventh but had a previously undisclosed brilliant idea on the 8th day: insert Hounds to keep humans in their place).

Human: I am a powerful investment banker.
Hound: I am going to eat your wingtips anyway.

Human: I am a glamorous celebrity.
Hound: Drool can only enhance the elegance of your couture.

Human: I am a billionaire real estate developer.
Hound: More buildings to pee on.

Human: My people came over on the Mayflower.
Hound: Mine with William the Conqueror. I win.

Human: I am a great music impresario.
Hound: I can sing better than your clients and their CDs make great eating.

Human: I am a world leader
Hound: Your trouser leg looks parched—let me fix that.

Human: I am royalty
Hound: Me too. I am The Hound King and your lap is my throne.

Anyway, Friday 13th or not we Hounds enjoy a bit of summer fun.

Wimsey’s Amusement Park

The Ferris Wheel Shred: A wheel in which desirable items such as clothing, books and furniture rotate for hounds to shred as they pass overhead.

The Carousel: To the accompanying music of baying, Hounds chew up the wooden horses.

The Concession Stand: Hounds sneak up and steal the franks off the grill.

The Roller Coaster: Hounds are gently rolled over as mechanical hands massage their bellies.

The Clown Chase: Hounds compete to chase away these bizarrely dressed and annoying humans.

The Drool Fling: Win magnificent stuffed toys by accurately flinging drool on pictures of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears.

Fun House: Your House

But anyway since the weather has improved here my human Maria and a friend of hers, Elizabeth, have been thinking about taking me on a picnic in Central Park. Just think how relaxing that is going to be! First they spread out a blanket. Then I chew on the blanket. Next they take out food. Then I drool into the food waiting for them to feed it to me (it is generally my policy never to steal food if I can get it peacefully by using positive reinforcement—it makes humans feel generous and they are always more cooperative if they think it was all their idea). Next come the beverages-- all of which are actually contained in plastic dog toys—at which I will bay forcefully and insistently until they are forthcoming. (Maria always forgets that noise canceling head phones are essential Wimsey picnic gear). Then I will shove my humans to the periphery of the blanket, sprawl out and roll over in the middle and poke at them until they rub my belly. Next I will sit up and scent air currents, drenching the blanket in drool. Finally I will smell something I simply must investigate and drag whomever is holding my leash off the blanket. And all the while passers by will come over to admire me and pet me (they never do this to my humans—so sad for them). Of course everyone will ask whether I am a good dog. Now whilst I am probably not a very good dog, I am in fact quite an excellent Hound:

A good dog fetches useful items
A good Hound eats useful items

A good dog lies at its human’s feet
A good Hound lies on its human

A good dog performs useful services
A good Hound demands useful services

A good dog worships its human
A good Hound is worshipped by its human

A good dog never begs
A good Hound never begs. It steals.

A good dog obeys commands
A good Hound issues commands

A good dog spreads joy
A good Hound spreads drool

A good dog loves its human
A good Hound loves itself

A good dog is smart
A good Hound is clever

But all this works out rather well, since I have noticed that Hound owners are absolutely besotted with their animals. It brings a whole new meaning to unconditional love. lso to masochism.

Dr. Sigmund Wimsey: Sit. Tell me why you have come to see me.

Patient: I have a Hound.

Dr. Sigmund Wimsey: That is very serious. Did you previously fantasize about having a Hound or is this a new phenomenon.

Patient: No. I always wanted one.

Dr. Sigmund Wimsey: I see. So the problem is rooted deep in your subconscious. Tell me about the first time you fantasized about having a Hound.

Patient: Well, my mother tied me to the toilet to potty train me and I remember thinking that if I had a Hound it could chew away the ropes.

Dr. Sigmund Wimsey: I see. You felt yourself powerless and in need of being rescued by a strong, handsome magnificent beast.

Patient: Yes. Then I saw my parents having sex and they promised me a Hound to make me forget.

Dr. Sigmund Wimsey: I see the Hound is associated with suppressed memories. And what is your Hound like.

Patient: He rules my life. He takes everything he wants. He never takes my needs into consideration.

Dr. Sigmund Wimsey: Well Hounds are basically Ids on four legs. It appears that you have transferred your traumatically suppressed Id into this Hound. So what stops you from employing your ego to assert control over this canine Id.

Patient: He is very cute.

Dr. Sigmund Wimsey: They always are. Well our 45 minutes are up. hat will be 1000 marks.

Well, anyway, so much for it being Friday the thirteenth. I intend to take full advantage as ever. I have also been honing my “Wimsey the Flying Hound” skills to liven things up on these special days. When I am being taken downstairs for a walk, I stop five or six steep steps up and then launch myself into space. My lengthy ears make me quite aerodynamically stable (kind of like Dumbo) although I am quite a terrifying site as I soar over the remaining steps to land on the landing. Much squealing and squeaking ensues (“Oh no. Wimsey thinks he is Superman again!”). Of course I did turn Elizabeth white as a sheet when I clambered onto a high boulder when off-roading in the Central Park Ramble (staying on the paths is so boring and so unnecessary when I am attached to a 20 foot leash) and prepared to launch myself to earth. She had to talk me down. But there is always next time. Perhaps after I am done wreaking havoc on the relaxing picnic.

Anyway, time to think about the menu…

Until next time,

Wimsey the Über Hound

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

July 6, 2007
Entry # 22

Hello everyone. It’s me Wimsey! Well, I have been having quite a time here in sunny New York City. The fun (for me anyway) began last Saturday when my human Maria did not feel well and decided that it was necessary to summon reinforcements to take care of me. Now even in a robust state of health taking care of me is an arduous task, so dealing with me when one is sick is pretty much out of the question. This meant that Elizabeth (a friend of my human’s) had the honor of providing me with bed and board for a most delightful four day stint. Of course it is too bad that Maria was sick but the opportunity to annoy Elizabeth is one of the great and enduring joys of Hound life.

Now I have pretty much destroyed everything Maria owns (except her books which she most unfairly put behind glass, so I can’t get at them—very unsporting of her) but Elizabeth’s apartment is a veritable houndly treasure trove of stuff to be messed with, chewed up and drooled upon. Also, whilst my human has long ago realized the futility of trying to be a good housekeeper in the presence of a Hound, not so Elizabeth. She continues in the quaint, and utterly misguided belief that she can maintain order and cleanliness in my stinky, drooly dirt caddying presence. As a consequence, she follows me around with a futile assortment of towels, rags, brooms and brushes-- sadly all to no avail. I will decorate the walls with drool stains and generously deposit dirt, hair and kibble wherever I happen to wander.

Hound Trek

Personal Space. The final frontier. These are the voyages of the Star Ship “Hound.” Its ten-year mission: To explore strange new habits. To seek out (and destroy) new stuff and new personal possessions. To boldly annoy where no Hound has annoyed before. (Grammatical note: we hounds also like to boldly split infinitives)


Captain James T. Wimsey: What’s that ahead, Ensign? On screen.

Ensign Sulu: It’s a class M apartment Captain. It looks pristine and lush with artifacts

Lt. Uhura: You’re being hailed Captain.

Voice: “Come!”

Captain James T. Wimsey: Don’t be ridiculous, The Captain of The Hound does not obey
commands.

Voice: “I’ll give you a piece of liver if you come.”

Captain James T. Wimsey: Boiled or fried?

Voice: “I’ll prepare it any way you want. Also I have a big rawhide for you.”

Captain James T. Wimsey: OK. What else.

Voice: “If you come you will be honored and feted and we have extensive facilities for belly rubs. The six handed women of Rigel 3 are here.”

Captain James T. Wimsey: And...

Voice: “There is a toilet bowl with your name on it. Lot’s of dirty underwear too.”

Captain James T. Wimsey: Is there Grom gelato?

Voice: “Of course.”

Captain James T. Wimsey: Well it sounds like I have a duty to explore this strange new apartment. Notify the doorman and beam me down Scotty.


But seriously, when it comes to being annoying I truly have a gift. I am a creative genius. A veritable Hound Einstein. It can take your breath away (literally) I even astonish myself with my innovative activities.

So after a long and sweaty preliminary park walk (Elizabeth being under the illusion that my talents can be blunted if only I am sufficiently exercised), I proceeded not only to pull the bathroom towels off their racks but also to upset the large bowl of kibble (tiny BB sized custom pellets courtesy of Timber wolf Organics) laid out for me. Now instead of the relaxing post walk cocktail that Elizabeth envisioned, there she was on her hands and knees picking up copious quantities of minute bits of kibble, which of course I wanted to eat as soon as she was in possession of them (hound rule: things outside of the food bowl are infinitely more appealing than those things within; stolen is preferred but coerced is OK too). And when Elizabeth finally sank, exhaustedly onto the couch, refreshing cocktail in hand, I proceeded to deposit my large and equally refreshing backside on top of her. She nearly broke down. But it was only the beginning of the festivities as I initiated:

The Wimsey Guest Schedule:

4:30 am: Dawn is approaching. Time for a noisy snack (I am a free feeding Hound and just as if I were Santa Claus my humans leave kibble and water out for me in case I should feel peckish during the night).

4:45am: Loud slurping of water and noisy ear shaking and flinging of drool.
5am: Bedside check for exposed feet.--I like to lick these, causing much squealing and it commences the Bed Eviction process.

5:15 am: Park chin on window ledge, noisy inhaling of delicious Riverside Park at dawn smells. Human knows she should get up, but resists.

6am: Foot check. Feet well buried, so snag a hand to snuffle instead.

6:30am: Am running out of patience. Park is smelling eve more delicious, can hear fellow canines gleefully disporting themselves. Intensify foot licking and body poking activities.

6:45am: Step onto bed (we giant hounds do not find it necessary to jump onto furniture as it all so small) and physically shove human out of bed (with much messy face licking and snuffling).
6:48 am: Human races to get me out the door convinced that I have an urgent need to relieve myself. 1 ½ poopless hours later it becomes apparent that I had an urgent need for a Park walk.

Post walk: Cooked breakfast. Wherein I sprawl inconveniently across kitchen floor during cooking process.

9am: Raid the recyclables pile and begin the eco-friendly process of pre-recycle shredding.

And just think-- the day had barely begun!

Now frankly Elizabeth deserves to be pestered since she has been holed up non-productively watching (or trying to watch) Wimbledon, which I find quite inexplicable.

Hound # 1: Your serve.

Hound # 2: No your serve.

Hound #1: I am a hound, I don’t serve. I am always served.

Hound #2: Then give me the ball.

Hound #1: No, it’s mine.

Hound #2: What do you think of these new racquets.

Hound #1: Frankly, I prefer the slower pace of the traditional wood—graphite chews too quickly.

Hound #2: Well this is lawn tennis-- let’s see who can pee all over the lawn and dig it up the quickest!

Referee: Code violation!

Hound #1: Who’s he?

Hound # 2: I didn’t hear anything. Now let’s start the match. Remember you are not allowed to pee on my side of the net.

Hound #1: Can we eat the net?

Hound #2: Certainly, but you must jump over it first. And don’t forget to give the umpire your paw before we leave the court.

Hound #1: OK. And after we’re done we can hit the clubhouse—I noticed a lot of people wearing white.

Hound #2: They won’t be for long.

But in any case, Elizabeth was too busy taking care of me to watch much tennis. It is also pretty hard to hear the TV when I am making a racket with my nose—when I want to sniff something (which is most of the time) it is like living in the middle of an Atlantic gale (“Wimsey’s nose sounds like a wind tunnel”) While not a great fan of tennis, I am something of a Trekker.


Hound Trek: Part II

Alien: Welcome Great Hound. What’s mine is yours.

Captain James T. Wimsey: Yes, I know.

Spock: Hound to Captain Wimsey. Can you hear me Captain?

Captain: Yes. Spock. No need to shout. Just because I don’t have prick ears doesn’t mean I am deaf!

Spock: Have you made contact with the alien Captain?

Captain: Yes. It appears friendly but is of a strange appearance. It only seems to have two legs. Can’t imagine how it gets anywhere. Also, it seems to have no sense of smell. But it does have some esthetically pleasing red hair. Tricorder readings indicate a quantity of eatable animal protein and lots of excellent consumables such as paper, wood and fabric as well as some crunchy electronic devices.

Spock: Excellent captain. Please mark the location for future shore leaves.


Well anyway Maria is now fully recovered but Elizabeth is still cleaning. I have the feeling she will be picking up bits of kibble until next year’s Wimbledon (“Oh look a piece of vintage summer of ’07 kibble; it goes so well with my collection of Thanksgiving ’06 pieces”). But she shouldn’t worry because if one thing is certain it’s that…. I’ll be back!

Well time to go rescue lost tourists in the Central Park Ramble

Captain Wimsey