Wimsey's Blog:Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 38
October 26, 2007

Hello Everyone. It’s me, Wimsey, and what a disastrous week it’s been. That is, apart from the fact that fall might actually have arrived, bringing with it a veritable cornucopia of hunting bounty of a rodentian kind. My human Maria had to intervene to prevent her friend Elizabeth’s arm from being dislocated when I charged after a scurrying mouse on a recent evening walk. ((Two Tugging Ladies= One Charging Wimsey—an excellent equation to be added to the Wimsey Book of Mathematical Science). Apparently bloodhounds aren’t the only creatures made frisky and active by the cooler weather. New York is now choc a block with an assortment of eminently chaseable, delectable rodents and, best of all, they are nocturnal so I get to engage in chase activities even after the squirrels have tucked themselves in for the night. And who knows? I might even have more luck catching one of these beasts than I do the squirrels. I suspect that it is due to this eventuality that my humans now assiduously engage in evening rodent scanning patrols.

But I digress. I was speaking of disaster—it turns out that my arch enemy—Maksim Chmerkovskiy (see last week’s post) failed to make my day and get himself kicked out of the competition on “Dancing With the Stars” and is thus back for yet another week of unfairly mesmerizing my humans. So this week it will be all “Look at that amazing lateral hip extension” and “Wow, notice his extraordinary vertical hip range” (this from Elizabeth who is analytical in all things, even manly charms) and “How hot is he!?” (from Maria who always cuts to the chase in these matters) instead of “Look how beautiful Wimsey is” and “See how the sunlight plays on his rich red coat”. Snarl. (I don’t think I actually know how to snarl, but if I did, I would).

Things that I Wimsey would like to see happen to Maksim Chmerkovskiy:

Painful ingrown hairs from too much chest waxing

Split pants from too much leg extension

A “1” from the judges for forgetting he was actually supposed to be dancing with a partner

Turning orange from too much tanning spray

Having to dance in a clown costume

Being quizzed by Elizabeth on the Lives of the Tudors

A world devoid of mirrors

My humans always tell me “handsome is as handsome does.” (of course I don’t score too highly in that department either) but clearly they make an exception for sizzling hot ballroom dancers, if not for egotistical bloodhounds. Anyway, if I were ever to meet Max I would body slam him, then place my large tush on his glossy waxed chest and drool all over his skin tight costume. It’s the stuff of houndly dreams.

It is all very sad that in addition to having to put up with this guy on TV, my own nascent TV career has so quickly been nipped in the bud. On Saturday I was booked onto the set of “The Apprentice” for a task involving dogs. Well the day began propitiously-- as I was walking along curbside on 6th avenue and 15th street I miraculously managed to fling drool all the way onto some poor sap standing in a door way. My best fling yet, but we had to hightail it down the street pretty smartish as he started yelling things that I didn’t understand (being around well brought up human females, I would have no knowledge of such words).

Well most of the day then consisted of hanging around a large space with production people and technicians coming and going. There were also a few other dogs that I wanted to mess with but was not supposed to. Better yet, in a futile attempt to make me look well behaved, I was wearing only a slip chain instead of my normal prong or Halti which meant that I was able express my rambunctious nature with considerably more élan and esprit than usual. Well I found all that waiting around rather boring and pointless, so I registered my disapproval by pretty much baying and squeaking the whole time we were there. That is when I was not trying to charge over to the other dogs, climb onto the chairs or eat those fuzzy things at the end of microphones.

The animal trainers who were present were not amused (animal trainers seldom have senses of humor in my experience) and poor Elizabeth looked very foolish as she futilely tried to get me to shut up. But I am a Hound and when I want to do something or say something, short of slipping me a Mickey Finn, it will get said and done. But I have to say that the production people were super. They all came over to talk to me and make a fuss over me (lots of squeals of what has become the Wimsey Mantra “he’s sooo cute!”) and to turn over their plastic water bottles to me at my command (they liked watching me take the tops off, which is the first thing I do before scrunching and making a racket with the plastic in my massive chops). And they all seemed to like hearing me speak and sing and to listen to Elizabeth narrate the history of the bloodhound as she tried to appear casual whilst trying to subdue me.

Anyway, in the end I was not chosen to be in the task. All the production people thought that this was a great shame and couldn’t imagine why not. In any case, as we had a bit of time to kill before my car was to pick me up (I always insist on a chauffeur driven car as befits a Hound of my stature—also if you have ever driven with Maria behind the wheel and Elizabeth navigating—north and south apparently being mysterious concepts-- you would understand why) Elizabeth, who was by this time ravenous from all these Wimsey Control activities, decided that we should stroll around the Union Square greenmarket while she hunted for something to eat that was not a gourd, root vegetable or ornamental flower.

Well, let me tell you, that if I am a popular guy on the Upper West Side, it is nothing compared to the excitement that I generated at the Union Square greenmarket. I was mobbed! People pointing and exclaiming and coming over to hear all about me and pet me while poor Elizabeth stood by politely perishing from hunger. It was glorious—right up there with that morning’s record drool fling.

And then we met a woman with an adorable girl beagle who was very interested in how she could get commercial work. When Elizabeth explained the agent system and also how the dog would have to, at least in theory, (certainly in my case) be able to sit and stay the woman looked at her in horror—“But she’s a Hound!” Ah, clearly a woman who gets it. As I have said many times, those who choose to live with a Hound are a breed apart. You need an excellent sense of humor and a secure ego able to withstand the myriad and sundry humiliations that will most certainly be heaped upon you in great profusion. And if you believe that your dog’s behavior is a personal reflection on you, then having a Hound is the shortest way to the therapy couch.

On the other hand you will have lots of good stories to tell. So when Elizabeth and I finally returned chez moi and Elizabeth began to narrate the events of the day (to the accompaniment of frequent murmurs of “I’m sorry” from Maria) it all seemed an amusing lark. Hind(hound)sight is a wonderful thing, particularly when fortified by strong coffee (it was still a bit early in the day for the gin and tonics) and the large cookie that it took Elizabeth forty-five minutes to buy because of all the Wimsey frenzy.

Anyway, I was so exhausted from all my antics—bad behavior being a lot more draining than it looks—that after a nice meal and some scratching on Elizabeth’s lap I did my best Klingon impersonation and snored blissfully into a world composed entirely of admiring TV crews and green markets. Take that Maksim Chmerkovskiy!

Until next time,

Wimsey, General Wimsey, Klingon Defense Force