Entry # 27
August 10, 2007
Hello Everyone. Wimsey here. Well it’s been another hot and sultry week here in New York City. We had a monster storm the other morning which did not affect us much here on the Upper West Side-- except that my human Maria was forced to walk to work (“Gee, walking is so easy when Wimsey is not towing me”) because the subways were down. Now I fail to see the attraction of subways in the first place—why would anyone want to use transport where I am not allowed—walking and sniffing are so much healthier, especially in the company of a giant exuberant Hound. Anyway, the storm was so violent that I was forced to climb into bed with Maria to comfort her and assure her that everything was OK. I even repeated her friend Elizabeth’s boring lecture on thunder being merely a compression wave caused by air heated by lightning. Boring science lectures are inordinately comforting when it feels like you are living in the middle of the London Blitz. Anyway, the storm flooded the subways; routinely malfunctioning public transportation is all part of the joys of living here in the Big Rawhide (I don’t particularly care for apples).
In fact, I do tend to have rawhides on the brain these days as my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth ordered a whacking great box of stuff for me, including an array of rawhides, bully sticks, hooves, stuffed toys and greenies. They claim they were feeling sorry for me because of my injured pad (“Oh look, Wimsey’s hurt his paw—let’s shop!”) but really I know it is because they like to shop, even if it is for me. Not that I am all that easy to shop for: Maria could probably fill her entire Manhattan sized apartment with all of the expensive gourmet dog treats that I have rejected. And of course everything has to be Jumbo Wimsey Sized. And then my humans get to haul all of this stuff up the stairs (like my 35lb bags of kibble)—Maria may be thin but she is developing the arms of a stevedore. Elizabeth just supervises and drinks beer—two things she really seems to excel at. But then my injured pad sympathy box didn’t start out so big, but once the ladies got online they lost all sense of control (“Zanies are so much more affordable than Prada and Jimmy Choo”). Although they claim they were only trying to justify the shipping charge. But who am I to complain—I have a new stuffed toy that the manufacturer claims is difficult to destroy—I’ll bet you can use an egg timer on me for that one—and also a back up replacement for my giant green stuffed Greeting Bone, which I always have in my mouth when people pay homage to me on the Tribute Couch. We Wimseys are very big on ritual, you know. I always spin twice before I poop and require a belly rub and a biscuit before my walking equipment is put on.
But anyway I do actually understand the joys of shopping (apart from the fact that all purchased items will eventually end up in my mouth even if that was not the original intention). Principally I shop extensively every day for just the right spot to deposit my precious and copious mounds of poop. I sniff, I weigh, I consider carefully—is this the right spot or is there something better just down the road. Is the spot inconvenient enough for human poop scooping? Will the leaves of this bush support the full weight of my deposit? Is the wind just right here to carry its fragrance an acceptable distance? Has this spot become so popular that I will no longer stand out? So many choices and considerations. And unlike my humans my choice is rate limiting—I only get to do it a few times a day.
Wimsey’s Poop Emporium
Sales Hound: Good afternoon. May I interest Sir in some prime pooping real estate?
Customer Hound: Yes, in fact I am just beginning my extensive daily search.
Sales Hound: Is Sir an upland or a lowland pooper? We have some excellent sturdy bushes and a very nice fence if the upland appeals. Lowland we have a special on a lovely lawn and a new patch of Ivy has just come in from China. And of course all spots are guaranteed to be fresh and positioned in excellent air flow.
Customer Hound; Well those all sound fine. But today I am looking for something just a little non-traditional.
Sales Hound: You know we don’t do anything illegal, like the running boards of SUVs or park benches.
Customer Hound: Yes of course, Wimsey’s Poop Emporium has a reputation for quality merchandise and the utmost integrity. It’s just that I’ve become a bit bored and am looking for something a bit novel.
Sales Hound: Well, seeing as how you are such a big fan of our establishment, I’ll let you in on a little secret—the staff were keeping it for themselves, but we have a lamppost of an entirely new design. A new type of lamppost has just come in with a wide, etched iron base that grips the poop like Velcro. If Sir will step behind this curtain and care to back himself up against it. The tush feel is extraordinary—one can feel those deep ridges, like so many tiny poop displaying shelves, even through Sir’s luxurious fur.
Customer Hound: Perfect. And trying to scrape it off will only press the poop deeper into the ridges.
Sales Hound: Exactly. The lamppost was clearly designed to provide a long lasting poop experience.
Customer Hound: It’s just what I have been looking for.
Sales Hound: At Wimsey’s Poop Emporium your Poop is our Pleasure.
And speaking of something novel, Elizabeth now needs a new name for the company she is raising money for. This is apparently even more difficult than me finding a place to poop. I have suggested Wimsey Enterprises, which I feel has a distinguished ring to it. Or perhaps Hubertus Pharma or the Bloodhound Group, International, but so far she has failed to see the appeal of these names (“Wimsey’s suggestions all seem to be about Wimsey”.) I have even offered to attend presentations to investors with her to help establish the company’s image (“There seems to be a giant Hound drooling in the middle of the conference table. Does anyone know why?” “Well no else has brought a giant Hound to drool on our conference table, so it is a different approach. Perhaps the company is highlighting how innovative they are. They think outside the Hound” “Do you think the Hound will affect valuation? The deal is already very pricy” “The Hound has shredded the term sheet—d
oes this mean the company is rejecting our offer?”)
Anyway, the quicker the deal winds up, the more time Elizabeth will have to spend with me and of course I am expecting a really humongous celebratory gift box. Elizabeth did take time out this week to take me to a place called New York Veterinary Specialists (www.nyc-vs.com) for an orthopedic exam to be sure that I am OK. It’s a lovely place, but curiously free of drool, a situation which I felt obligated to rectify. Multiple times. I do so like trashing vet offices. It’s revenge for having to have my temperature taken (Elizabeth is developing quite an effective head lock—maybe if she doesn’t complete her deal we have a future with the World Wrestling Federation: “In this corner we have Wimsey the Prodigious Droolomator and in the opposing corner we have the tag team of Elizabeth and Maria wielding thermometers, nail clippers and ear cleaning solution.”)
Anyway, the first part of the ortho exam consisted of Elizabeth gaiting me outside back and forth for the specialist (given her anatomy, I bet she wished she had reconsidered that thin, scoop neck T shirt she was wearing). And of course being the cooperative Hound that I am, I gaited beautifully—trotting elegantly by her side as I never do for her in the show ring. I am nothing if not inconveniently cooperative. Anyway, then sad to say, things went downhill—it took two strong men to hold me on my side while the vet played with my legs and feet. Now Maria does this to me to all the time and I like it, but given how serious everyone was I was convinced that something truly abominable—like a nail clipping—was about to happen. But the good news is that the eminent orthopedic specialist could find nothing wrong with me and when he isn’t sitting on me, is a rather nice chap. He is originally from Scotland and I must confess that I was a bit disappointed that he didn’t comfort me with a “thair, thair, wee haunde”.
But I did get a mound of turkey for dinner out of it, richly deserved, I might add. And I think my humans deserve to engage in another online shopping trip to Petedge.
Until next time,
The Sound but Sat Upon, Wimsey
August 10, 2007
Hello Everyone. Wimsey here. Well it’s been another hot and sultry week here in New York City. We had a monster storm the other morning which did not affect us much here on the Upper West Side-- except that my human Maria was forced to walk to work (“Gee, walking is so easy when Wimsey is not towing me”) because the subways were down. Now I fail to see the attraction of subways in the first place—why would anyone want to use transport where I am not allowed—walking and sniffing are so much healthier, especially in the company of a giant exuberant Hound. Anyway, the storm was so violent that I was forced to climb into bed with Maria to comfort her and assure her that everything was OK. I even repeated her friend Elizabeth’s boring lecture on thunder being merely a compression wave caused by air heated by lightning. Boring science lectures are inordinately comforting when it feels like you are living in the middle of the London Blitz. Anyway, the storm flooded the subways; routinely malfunctioning public transportation is all part of the joys of living here in the Big Rawhide (I don’t particularly care for apples).
In fact, I do tend to have rawhides on the brain these days as my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth ordered a whacking great box of stuff for me, including an array of rawhides, bully sticks, hooves, stuffed toys and greenies. They claim they were feeling sorry for me because of my injured pad (“Oh look, Wimsey’s hurt his paw—let’s shop!”) but really I know it is because they like to shop, even if it is for me. Not that I am all that easy to shop for: Maria could probably fill her entire Manhattan sized apartment with all of the expensive gourmet dog treats that I have rejected. And of course everything has to be Jumbo Wimsey Sized. And then my humans get to haul all of this stuff up the stairs (like my 35lb bags of kibble)—Maria may be thin but she is developing the arms of a stevedore. Elizabeth just supervises and drinks beer—two things she really seems to excel at. But then my injured pad sympathy box didn’t start out so big, but once the ladies got online they lost all sense of control (“Zanies are so much more affordable than Prada and Jimmy Choo”). Although they claim they were only trying to justify the shipping charge. But who am I to complain—I have a new stuffed toy that the manufacturer claims is difficult to destroy—I’ll bet you can use an egg timer on me for that one—and also a back up replacement for my giant green stuffed Greeting Bone, which I always have in my mouth when people pay homage to me on the Tribute Couch. We Wimseys are very big on ritual, you know. I always spin twice before I poop and require a belly rub and a biscuit before my walking equipment is put on.
But anyway I do actually understand the joys of shopping (apart from the fact that all purchased items will eventually end up in my mouth even if that was not the original intention). Principally I shop extensively every day for just the right spot to deposit my precious and copious mounds of poop. I sniff, I weigh, I consider carefully—is this the right spot or is there something better just down the road. Is the spot inconvenient enough for human poop scooping? Will the leaves of this bush support the full weight of my deposit? Is the wind just right here to carry its fragrance an acceptable distance? Has this spot become so popular that I will no longer stand out? So many choices and considerations. And unlike my humans my choice is rate limiting—I only get to do it a few times a day.
Wimsey’s Poop Emporium
Sales Hound: Good afternoon. May I interest Sir in some prime pooping real estate?
Customer Hound: Yes, in fact I am just beginning my extensive daily search.
Sales Hound: Is Sir an upland or a lowland pooper? We have some excellent sturdy bushes and a very nice fence if the upland appeals. Lowland we have a special on a lovely lawn and a new patch of Ivy has just come in from China. And of course all spots are guaranteed to be fresh and positioned in excellent air flow.
Customer Hound; Well those all sound fine. But today I am looking for something just a little non-traditional.
Sales Hound: You know we don’t do anything illegal, like the running boards of SUVs or park benches.
Customer Hound: Yes of course, Wimsey’s Poop Emporium has a reputation for quality merchandise and the utmost integrity. It’s just that I’ve become a bit bored and am looking for something a bit novel.
Sales Hound: Well, seeing as how you are such a big fan of our establishment, I’ll let you in on a little secret—the staff were keeping it for themselves, but we have a lamppost of an entirely new design. A new type of lamppost has just come in with a wide, etched iron base that grips the poop like Velcro. If Sir will step behind this curtain and care to back himself up against it. The tush feel is extraordinary—one can feel those deep ridges, like so many tiny poop displaying shelves, even through Sir’s luxurious fur.
Customer Hound: Perfect. And trying to scrape it off will only press the poop deeper into the ridges.
Sales Hound: Exactly. The lamppost was clearly designed to provide a long lasting poop experience.
Customer Hound: It’s just what I have been looking for.
Sales Hound: At Wimsey’s Poop Emporium your Poop is our Pleasure.
And speaking of something novel, Elizabeth now needs a new name for the company she is raising money for. This is apparently even more difficult than me finding a place to poop. I have suggested Wimsey Enterprises, which I feel has a distinguished ring to it. Or perhaps Hubertus Pharma or the Bloodhound Group, International, but so far she has failed to see the appeal of these names (“Wimsey’s suggestions all seem to be about Wimsey”.) I have even offered to attend presentations to investors with her to help establish the company’s image (“There seems to be a giant Hound drooling in the middle of the conference table. Does anyone know why?” “Well no else has brought a giant Hound to drool on our conference table, so it is a different approach. Perhaps the company is highlighting how innovative they are. They think outside the Hound” “Do you think the Hound will affect valuation? The deal is already very pricy” “The Hound has shredded the term sheet—d
oes this mean the company is rejecting our offer?”)Anyway, the quicker the deal winds up, the more time Elizabeth will have to spend with me and of course I am expecting a really humongous celebratory gift box. Elizabeth did take time out this week to take me to a place called New York Veterinary Specialists (www.nyc-vs.com) for an orthopedic exam to be sure that I am OK. It’s a lovely place, but curiously free of drool, a situation which I felt obligated to rectify. Multiple times. I do so like trashing vet offices. It’s revenge for having to have my temperature taken (Elizabeth is developing quite an effective head lock—maybe if she doesn’t complete her deal we have a future with the World Wrestling Federation: “In this corner we have Wimsey the Prodigious Droolomator and in the opposing corner we have the tag team of Elizabeth and Maria wielding thermometers, nail clippers and ear cleaning solution.”)
Anyway, the first part of the ortho exam consisted of Elizabeth gaiting me outside back and forth for the specialist (given her anatomy, I bet she wished she had reconsidered that thin, scoop neck T shirt she was wearing). And of course being the cooperative Hound that I am, I gaited beautifully—trotting elegantly by her side as I never do for her in the show ring. I am nothing if not inconveniently cooperative. Anyway, then sad to say, things went downhill—it took two strong men to hold me on my side while the vet played with my legs and feet. Now Maria does this to me to all the time and I like it, but given how serious everyone was I was convinced that something truly abominable—like a nail clipping—was about to happen. But the good news is that the eminent orthopedic specialist could find nothing wrong with me and when he isn’t sitting on me, is a rather nice chap. He is originally from Scotland and I must confess that I was a bit disappointed that he didn’t comfort me with a “thair, thair, wee haunde”.
But I did get a mound of turkey for dinner out of it, richly deserved, I might add. And I think my humans deserve to engage in another online shopping trip to Petedge.
Until next time,
The Sound but Sat Upon, Wimsey
1 comment:
The indignities! I think you deserve a shopping trip to Lola and Penny's pet boutique, my favorite place here in St. Loulis. They have gigantic bully sticks! three feet long. Almost as tall as muzzer. yummy
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