Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 55
February 22, 2008

Hello Everyone. Wimsey here reporting from Manhattan’s Winter Wonderland. It’s snowing here finally and my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth are busy checking out the nearest emergency rooms! At long last I will get to pit the prowess of the Wimsey tru-Grip Paws (all natural leather) against the vaunted Salomon Snow Clogs (supposedly guaranteed to provide that extra traction one needs when being towed through slippery snow by a large excited Hound) that have been sitting accusingly in Elizabeth’s closet since December. Personally, I bet on my Hound paws which provide the most excellent traction in all weathers—they enable me to pace gracefully across the slickest of ice (not even ice will make me trot) with nary a slip, much to the amazement of my humans (‘Maybe Wimsey’s paws secrete that sticky stuff that spiders use?” and “Do you think he can climb up the sides of buildings?”). It’s just one of the many super powers with which nature has endowed the Hound as a mark of our clear superiority.

The Adventures of Wimsey The SuperHound

NY Citizen 1: Look someone is robbing a bodega!

NY Citizen 2: It’s Wimsey The SuperHound to the rescue—he has popped out of nowhere and swung his body right into the path of the fleeing thug, sending him flying!

NY Citizen 1: Yes, it’s a maneuver he practices quite a bit I understand.

NY Citizen 2; Look someone is trying to steal a car.

NY Citizen 1: But SuperHound Wimsey is using his “car alarm” voice! The man is holding his ears and crowds have gathered from miles around to see what has made this infernal racket!

NY Citizen2: And look that man is lifting a wallet out of someone’s pocket!

NY Citizen 1: But he can’t hang on to it! Wimsey has flung a coating of super-drool all over it making it too slimey to hold!

NY Citizen 2: I don’t know what this city would do without SuperHound! “Is it a pony? Is it a moose? No it’s Wimsey SuperHound! Here to uphold Truth Justice and the New York City Way. ”

And speaking of moose, I am starting to take real exception to having my humans describe some of my poop as “moose poop.” Now few things in life are more certain than that neither of my ladies has ever seen a moose, let alone its poop. I produce fine, elegant bloodhound poop and I bitterly resent its being characterized as clunky moose poop. If my poop must be compared to that of another animal why can’t I produce gazelle poop or jaguar poop or even giraffe poop? My humans are constantly obsessing about my poop—the occasion of its production is one of great joy and celebration (“Isn’t it wonderful, Wimsey is pooping! Hurray!”) and when they are done applying the Moh’s scale of hardness to it they then debate its shape, weight and relative merits (“Yesterday’s poop had a slightly more pleasing cylindrical shape, although the color of this one is quite fine” and “It’s the greenie he consumed yesterday I expect—it always imparts that characteristic emerald-like shimmer.”). I am expecting a jeweler’s loupe to pop out at any moment. (Needless to say I am not afforded reciprocal privileges at the toilet which I think is grossly unfair). I do really think the ladies might take up a different hobby, it would certainly make them more datable—I cannot see that a passion for poop enhances their romantic appeal and it might certainly look a bit odd on match.com

Of course, an interest in poop might be a distinct asset in Wimsey’s online Hound Dating Service


Hound Dating Profile:

Is your idea of a good time:

A romantic evening by the fire shredding the couch cushions
A romp through the garden digging up plants
Exploring the hidden depths of the laundry basket
Dining a deux on unattended garbage

Would you describe yourself as :

Adventurous: always willing to steal a new food item
Sporty: enjoy long hours outdoors dislocating human arms
Intellectual: think deeply about the best places to deposit poop given prevailing wind conditions
Romantic: Enjoy exchanging drool

Your favorite activities include:

Decorating
Fine dining
Gardening
Doing the laundry
Cleaning the Cat Box


Anyway now that Westminster is over, I get to go back to being a regular dog, which in my case still means leading the life of a celebrity--- although being shown at Westminster and being interviewed by the New York Daily News and the New York Post did add even more to my celebrity aura. It was all “Ick! Get that big stinky dog away from me! What! He was at Westminster and was written up in the papers! You mean he’s famous! Why he’s beautiful! Can I pet him?” Even if you are a dog, humans want to be associated with you if you are famous: (“Yes I’ve known Wimsey since he was a pup; we are very good friends; I am sure it was an oversight that he didn’t mention me to the newspapers.”).

And of course even people who don’t know me take one look at me and know that I am somebody—kind of like when a six foot tall 100lb woman walks into a New York City restaurant—I am too beautiful and too rare to be just another obscure upper west side canine. And all of this has tangible perks—the other day on my morning tow through Central Park Maria and I ran into a couple of New York’s Finest who invited me to inspect their SUV (I am as passionate about cars as the ladies are about poop) and then proceeded to feed me their scrambled egg and cheese breakfast sandwiches (an excellent combination that; I intend to put it on the “Let’s Bulk Up Wimsey” menu de hound). It is obvious that New York City policemen are called The Finest because they have the finest taste in Hounds (their food and SUV were pretty good too). I wonder if they would consider judging dog shows:

Police Judge: Best in Show is the bloodhound.
Show Steward: But we haven’t even judged breed yet!

And the groups would be different—none of this sporting group or toy group stuff: There would be things like The Tracking Perps Group, The Tough Looking Dog Group, The finding illegally parked cars group, and of course The Wimsey Group.

Personally I do my bit for New York City security by inspecting all Zabar’s, Citarella and Fairway food bags. You never know what could be hidden in them—I sometimes even need to take a little nibble to verify the bags bona fides. But it is all part of the Wimsey Service—I am increasingly admired as much for my less than perfect behavior as for my astonishing good looks. Let’s face it, humans admire naughty hounds. Would anyone have read Marley and Me if it were about a pleasant well regulated Labrador? I don’t think so. And where would my nemesis Cesar Millan be without misbehaving pooches? Inside every human there is a secret, insubordinate hound who lives vicariously through us-- I mean what human would not relish lifting a leg on an annoying boss or baying in the ear of a boring colleague. They can’t. We can. So bad boy Hounds rule!

As an example, while taking one of my endless Sunday walks in the park, Elizabeth and I ran into a lovely lady who had had a bloodhound thirty years ago in Texas. Now this lady also showed standard poodles but even thirty years later her heart belonged to her Hound, Nick Carter. And even after all this time she chuckles as she relates how her husband had to repaint the drool spattered walls monthly and how during tracking and trailing class Nick declined to follow the scent laid down on the course and just tracked what he wanted to— once even into a field with a bull (how he remained unscathed she has no idea, but hounds are endlessly resourceful when it comes to self preservation). So did she tell me about all the lovely nice obedient and clean dogs she had had. No. She told me about her insubordinate, drooly, stinky (do we come any other way) bloodhound. And she was just full of admiration for Elizabeth’s courage (and foolishness) in taking me into a show ring.

And speaking of the show ring, now that I am not to be shown again until next month I delight in marching around Central Park setting myself up of my own volition in a series of majestic stacked positions that make my humans crazy (“Why won’t Wimsey do that in the show ring!”). Also during our last walk we visited the Chess and Checkers house in Central Park which made me think about what an excellent chess player a wily and strategically deep thinking Hound like myself would be:

Chess commentator 1: We are here today to see Grandmaster Wimsey take on former world chess champion Gary Kasparov.

Chess commentator 2: I thought Grandmaster Wimsey was a rap star.

Chess commentator 1: No, he’s more like an opera star, but today he’s playing chess.

Chess commentator 2: Wimsey is opening with Hound to Hound 4.

Chess commentator 1: Is Kasparov going to respond with the Ruy Lopez?

Chess commentator 2: I don’t think so. Wimsey ate his King’s pawn.

Chess commentator 1: Perhaps Kasparov will try the Sicilian Defense then?

Chess commentator 2: Unlikely. Wimsey also ate his bishop’s pawn.

Chess commentator 1: Kasparov seems unable to move.

Chess commentator; 2: Yes he seems quite puzzled.

Chess commentator 1: No, I mean he is unable to move—Wimsey has stuck his pieces to the board with drool.

Chess commentator 2: Another well deserved victory for the Great Hound. Is that a bay of triumph I hear?

Chess commentator 1: Yes. Wimsey has captured Kasparov’s king. He’s eating it.

Anyway, it just goes to show that I am not just a beautiful face. And speaking of beautiful faces, today’s visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art involves one of antiquities most dramatic beauty contests—it was like Westminster for goddesses: The Judgment of Paris (Peter Paul Rubens, 1597, National Gallery, London). Now Best in Show was down to three of Mount Olympus’ most beautiful goddesses: Athena (aka. Ch. Minerva’s Goddess of Wisdom) Hera (aka Ch. Juno’s Wife of Zeus) and Aphrodite (aka Ch. Venus’ Goddess of Love). The painting depicts Best in Show judge Paris awarding the blue ribbon (a golden apple in this case) to Aphrodite. But unfortunately the goddesses had made attempts to bribe the judge—Athena offered wisdom (yawn), Hera offered to make Paris a great king (a pretty good gig) and Aphrodite offered Paris the love of the world’s most beautiful woman (who unfortunately was someone else’s wife). I bet you can’t guess which one he chose (even in ancient times men’s brains were in their togas). It never seemed to have occurred to the chap that if he were a powerful king, the love of beautiful women would be sure to follow (women’s hearts being often found in their Fendi handbags). But I digress. Now the best in show line up was woefully incomplete without the addition of a magnificent Hound who clearly is about to snatch the prize away from Aphrodite, altruistically preventing the start of the Trojan War and sparing generations of students (whose only interest in Homer is surnamed Simpson) the agony of struggling through The Iliad (“if you loved The Odyssey…. Yes there’s more!!!”) The Judgment of Wimsey.

OK, time at last for a romp in the snow and the defeat of The Snow Clogs (coming to an emergency room nearest you).

Until next time,

Wimsey, a regular Manhattan dog who people take pictures of, newspapers write about and policemen feed their breakfasts to.