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