Entry # 92
November 7, 2008
Hello Everyone, Wimsey here coming to you from my Hound House on Manhattan’s glorious Upper West Side. And what an exciting week it’s been. First of course there was the election which was made more thrilling by the fact that the Obamas promised their daughters a puppy. Now this caused uniform cries of consternation from my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth along the lines of “Not a Hound!” and “Do you think we should send a letter to warn them—it could be a matter of national security, not to mention personal security—I am sure the Secret Service is no match for a Hound and how would it look for a young vigorous new president to appear smelly and bruised and sporting a shoulder sling. And the White House housekeeping staff would quit, and there would be Hound hair and teeth marks in all the food for the state dinners and the new elegant First Lady would have drool stains on her dresses or worse, be forced to dress like a farmer and the little girls would have their homework really eaten by the dog (along with all their after school snacks) and ceremonial occasions would be marred by the playing of Hail to the Chief followed by enthusiastic baying and treaties would go missing and pens to sign important bills would be all chewed up and foreign dignitaries would stop visiting and the congressional leadership would suggest off site meetings and the Chief of Staff would resign because his job had been usurped and in short order the administration would come grinding to a halt. But then, Hounds are so cute!”
And Presidential dogs, both real and potential, have been much in news this week as White House dog Barney, the feisty Scottish terrier nipped at a newsman which pretty much sums up how a lot of people in the public eye feel about the media. (Perhaps the Obamas should scratch terriers off their list as well). I of course never nip at the media—my views are that anyone intrepid enough to withstand the onslaught of flung drool and the clouds of stench with which I surround myself deserves to give me a scratch. And the odor with which I imbue them ensures that they will remember the event long after the mere nip of a terrier has passed into the dust bin of history. But I do admire Barney (and other terriers) for their commanding and self-assertive attitude. We Hounds share their goals, we just use other tactics to achieve them. Which makes me think that although most people think that President Bush is the President, Barney knows he’s really the commander in chief. Most canines are.
And speaking of presidents, this Sunday I visited Grant’s Tomb in upper Manhattan. I graciously allowed the New York City Marathon to take over Central Park on Sunday and so my humans and I all spent the afternoon in Riverside Park where the tomb is located. Now the concept of the marathon is one I always enjoy and try to emulate—marathon tows through the park being one of my specialties—but these runners do not appear to be trying to drag humans or follow scent or snack on squirrels. Nor do they appear to be fleeing bothersome Hounds either. Seems a bit pointless and although the marathon is considered an amazing feat of endurance I think living with a Hound qualifies as an even greater feat of endurance—the marathon will eventually end after a few hours but not so the exhausting will of a Hound!
And lest my humans think that marathon walks in Riverside Park and educational visits to national monuments would make me less bothersome, I got another opportunity to prove them wrong during another episode of Wimsey Mail Merge as Elizabeth sent out another mailing about her new company. I am quite enjoying these forays into the business world, especially the squeals of delight that Maria emits when she finds that the keyboard upon which she has been typing has been replaced by my head. And there will apparently soon be another mailing-- holiday cards this time-- and there is some talk of including a picture of all of the company staff with our respective titles. Although I am to be identified as Wimsey, Office Dog I believe that I am much more of an Office Hound:
An office dog provides companionship. An office hound demands companionship.
An office dog naps peacefully under the desk. An office Hound peacefully chews up the desk.
An office dog provides a diversion. An office Hound creates a diversion.
An office dog stays away from the paper shredder. An office Hound is the paper shredder.
An office dog makes people smile. An office Hound makes people scream.
An office dog politely puts his head in your lap. An office Hound politely puts himself in your lap.
An office dog listens to telephone calls. An office Hound participates in telephone calls
An office dog waits patiently for a break. An office Hound impatiently creates a break. Of bones.
And since we have been having warm, wet weather here I am now The Even Smellier Office Assistant which just adds to the general corporate ambience. But this week was also St. Hubert’s Day which was cause for much celebrating and good feelings chez moi. The monks of St. Hubert perfected the bloodhound (see post # 8) and as a consequence I am known in various parts of Europe as a St. Hubert dog. Now St. Hubert was the patron saint of hunters:
Things Bloodhounds Hunt:
►Juicy animals the chasing of which cause a) dislocations of the human shoulder, b) fences to be dug under, acquire holes or to be otherwise rendered ineffective or c) the screaming of such useless imprecations as “no” “come” “leave it” “stop” and “I’m calling Cesar Millan.”
►The most inconvenient spot in the house in which to nap. These include the middle of the kitchen during dinner hour, the couch during TV hour, your favorite chair during reading hour, your bed during bedtime hour and your lap at any hour.
►The contents of the refrigerator—a wily and elusive but ultimately rewarding prey.
►The contents of the kitchen counter—an easier prey than the refrigerator but with a more limited selection
►The contents of the laundry basket.
►Things previously deemed inedible including (but not limited to): shoes, gloves, newspapers, towels, remote controls and other assorted hand held electronic devices, books (Maria’s cookbook collection was especially delicious), haltis, leashes and other instruments of Hound control, pens, pencils, the mail, table legs, money, the couch.
►Newer and better ways in which to humiliate you.
But St. Hubert’s Day did present a problem: The ladies couldn’t think of anything new and special to do for me that they don’t do every day. Just another one of the challenges of living with (catering to) a bloodhound. I however took matters into my own paws and have decided to get heavily into al fresco snacking during walks. So now in addition to dragging my humans over to all vertical surfaces for endless rounds of peeing, rolling in smelly leaves, baying at the red traffic lights that impede our progress, wheeling around suddenly causing my humans to fall over me, poking passing pedestrians in the butt, looking into people’s shopping bags and trying to jump on passing dogs, I now stop suddenly, stare fixedly at the treat pouch and give it a vigorous poke for emphasis until a cookie is popped into my mouth. Just another example of how I continually find new ways for my humans to be of service.
And this week I decided to institute a Great Withholding of the Poop. I apparently had not pooped in 36 hours (really, I think my humans have one of those clocks like the ones used for counting the national debt) causing no amount of consternation among the ladies. There were chants of “Poop Wimsey poop!” and I was escorted around extensively and showed all manner of suitable real estate “Oooh Wimsey look at that beautiful pile of leaves! They even make me want to poop!” and “Look at this cozy spot between the parked cars. Wouldn’t it be lovely to poop here” and “Look! It’s a fence! We know how much you like to poop against fences and make the poop fall out of reach on the other side.” But I remained unmoved. A good poop is like a fine wine--it cannot be rushed. It must be stored, developed and incubated until the time is right and the results can be savored. And when the long awaited mound finally appeared you would indeed have though my humans had opened up a bottle of Chateau Lafitte or had been ushered into the presence of some great work of art. And my efforts were loudly cheered “Hurray! Good Wimsey! It’s beautiful. We hope you exhibit at more frequent intervals!”
And speaking of great works of art, I have often considered myself the Picasso of Poop and for today’s visit to The Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art we look at an actual Picasso: Harlequin, (Pablo Picasso, 1901, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York). This painting marks the beginning of Picasso’s blue period in which he used a blue palette to convey the sadness he felt upon learning of the suicide of a close friend. But this is a puzzling picture—the harlequin seems to be contemplating something. But what? See how much more sense it makes if the harlequin is contemplating the beauty of his magnificent blue Hound! Perhaps he is admiring the Hound’s glowing coat or his splendid intelligence. Or thinking about new things he can do to please his Hound. Or maybe he is just wondering when his Hound will finally poop.
Well that is all I have time for today. Finding new ways to disrupt office activities is an exhausting task and requires a restorative nap on the bed.
Until next time,
Wimsey, Chief Operating Hound
Friday, November 7, 2008
Entry # 92
Posted by Wimsey at 7:14 PM