Wimsey's Blog:Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #151

Entry #151

January 1, 2010

Hello Everyone and Happy New Year from America’s most improbable Hound Capital-- New York City’s Upper West Side-- where I, Wimsey, have been holding court all week for the City’s multitude of visiting tourists. And I have been a true New Year’s Hound inspiring many of these fine touristic folks to make resolutions such as “I’ll never get a dog like that” and so forth. And to help my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth face the New Year and what promises to be a cold and hopefully snowy winter, boxes from that noted couturier, House of Bean, have been pouring in. I view these boxes as really being for me since their purpose is to allow me to keep my humans out in all weathers for ridiculous amounts of time without my having to listen to “I’m cold,” “I’m wet” “I can’t feel my fingers or my toes” and “Isn’t this the 800th time Wimsey has sniffed that spot?” Well LL Bean won’t help with the latter, I’m afraid but it will make my humans more comfortable while they hang around watching my nose fall into some olfactory black hole from which I seem able to extract it only with the greatest of difficulty. It is a well known fact the number of olfactory black holes is inversely proportional to the temperature, with snow, sleet and rain also increasing their occurrence.

And the ladies aren’t the only ones with a winter wardrobe these days. Owing to variations in climactic conditions this week I was able to disport myself in both my flashy new fleece and my Cloud Chaser snow coat both courtesy of the folks at Ruff Wear. The only thing more conspicuous than a giant Hound tooling around New York City is a giant Hound tooling around New York City in a red or a chartreuse coat. I mean I am pretty hard to ignore even when clad in my classic black and tan let alone when I metamorphose into a brightly colored Hound of Paradise.

Well all in all it’s been a pretty good last week of the year here. If you read last week’s post you know that I have been resisting taking this disgusting antibiotic called Baytril that Bayer specifically formulated to supposedly be delicious to dogs but which is really so foul tasting and smelling that no amount of roast beef and yams (or peanut butter, scrambled eggs, turkey or imported rice pudding) can disguise the taste. Hence I won the battle of the pills (as I usually win all my battles) which resulted in a couple of $$$$ shots of Baytril to the Wimsey rump instead (really it was injected into one of my massive bodily skin folds that are designed to be impervious to things a lot worse than veterinary needles) and some more desirable visits to the vet’s office which I have renamed the Wimsey Petting Parlor.

I was especially entertained by the elderly lady who was so amazed that I allowed her to pet me (she’s a cat person) that she offered to hold my leash while Elizabeth re-encased herself in her many layers of winter wear. The lady seemed disappointed when Elizabeth politely refused—I guess she didn’t notice the blood drain from Elizabeth’s face at the very thought of it. Anyway, on the pill front, Elizabeth was eventually dispatched to Duane Reade to pick up regular, human (non flavored) tablets of cipro which caused some amount of confusion with the pharmacy staff. They wanted my date of birth and my insurance card leaving Elizabeth to explain that Blue Cross doesn’t usually cover dogs and although I was only five I was not in fact a pediatric case. Anyway there was much loud discussion behind the glass window, the only word of which Elizabeth understood was “perro.” Well the clerk finally parted with the stuff—but not before making one last ditch effort to encourage the production of my insurance card. (If such an item were to have existed I would have eaten it a long time ago).

Anyway, any slight odor the pills have is more than compensated for by all the delectables into which it is rolled. Consequently, I am on the mend assisted by food bowl additions of fresh cooked yams and round roast. They help me keep up my strength so that I can do yet more damage to Maria’s ailing hamstrings. The knowledge of this pleases her immensely while she is cooking for me. Now when I see a naked bowl of kibble (I am on Orijen these days which is actually quite tasty) I stare first at it and then at the attendant human with a giant AND… hanging in the air. The only downside to this whole thing is that the ladies had the temerity to try and rest me by cutting an hour off of the usual 4 hour Sunday in the Park with Wimsey extravaganza. This forced me to go all John McEnroe with the Hound equivalent of “You cannot be serious!” I mean, what kind of a measly walk is 3 hours!

And of course I was in fine voice this week-- the bit of snow we had on New Year’s Eve day bringing out my finest efforts. And looking back on the previous year, here are things people said I sound like:

A whale

A seal lion

A porpoise

A walrus (the marine mammal thing seems to be pretty big)

An elephant

A shofar (this is culturally diverse NYC after all)

A fog horn

In fact anything but a cheesed off Hound, which is usually what my baying is about. My number one New Year’s Resolution (apart from being a better Hound which is always bad news for my humans) is to capture some of my operatic efforts on video. And of course this year seems to have been a banner year for celebrity foibles. So instead of newspapers being filled with inspirational stories of Hounds stealing Christmas, etc. they are filled with the goings on of people who ought to know better. Taking a page out of Dr. Phil’s book (he has no shrink credentials either), I offer an episode of:

Wimsey: Celebrity Psychologist

Therapist Wimsey: Hello. I am Wimsey, how can I help you? (I ripped this line off from Cesar Millan. He uses it to lull his clients into a false sense of security right before he humiliates them on national TV).

Tiger Woods: Hey! You’re a dog!

Therapist Wimsey: Well the same might be said of you-- although technically I am a Hound which is kind of like a dog but one that can’t be trained. And I could say “Hey! You’re a human! Tiger is usually a dog’s name and I expected you to be brindle. But I digress. What seems to be your problem?

Tiger: I can’t seem to keep it in my pants.

Therapist Wimsey: Me neither. Although I am sure that lots of parents of curious small children wish that I did.

Tiger: But my wife found out and chased me with a golf club.

Therapist Wimsey: Well at least it wasn’t ear cleaning solution. I get chased with that all the time and that really is terrifying. Anyway, perhaps she was just working on her short game.

Tiger: No, she was using a 3 iron.

Therapist Wimsey: I would have thought a 5 wood would have been a better choice but then golf was never my game.

Tiger: True, a wood would have been a better choice although I would have gone for a lower loft club myself. But then she didn’t have the advice of a caddy at the time and I was in no position to advise her myself. Anyway, the whole thing is a mess because now my sponsors have deserted me and I might have to move from my 35,000 square foot home into some 20,000 square foot shack and be forced to sleep with only one beautiful woman. And all the ladies who thought they were special have now found out that there are enough of them to populate a small hamlet. My caddy tells me they’ve been spotted in the pro shop evincing an unhealthy interest in buying clubs.

Therapist Wimsey: Well here is the problem: You are a young guy with an abundance physical energy who is playing a sport basically made for middle aged men. I am therefore going to prescribe a Hound-- or perhaps a pack as you are in to multiples—who will make sure that you never again have enough energy or time to waste on the frivolous pursuit of the fair sex. Also the Hounds will have a salubrious effect on your celebrity sized ego—by the time they are done with you you will be feeling so insignificant and your needs of such minimal importance that you will be grateful if even one lady looks at you—especially given how you will smell.

Tiger: But what about my image.

Therapist Wimsey: I hear Petco is looking for a new spokesman.

Tiger: Thank you Therapist Wimsey.

Therapist Wimsey: One more thing, I would suggest you give your Hound a nice name like John or Michael or something so that way no one will get mixed up about which one of you is the dog.

Tiger: Thanks again. By the way, was that Governor Sanford I saw in the waiting room.

Therapist Wimsey: Yes. He’s apparently short both a wife and a soul mate. I’m going to prescribe a Dogo.

Anyway, having too much time, money or physical energy is not a problem for my humans as I am the perfect antidote to all three. Which is probably why when they read about the boarding kennel that gave people back the wrong dog they were disappointed to learn that it was all the way in Washington State. (“Maybe they would give us back a dog that didn’t display homicidal tendencies on every walk”)

Also this week I discovered that I am not the only canine link between my hero Sir Isaac Newton and the laws of physics that I use to great effect to inflict bodily harm on my humans. A physics professor called Chad Orzel has written a book, How to Teach Physics to Your Dog (

http://dogphysics.com) to help mere humans understand the subject better.

Well I hope everyone has a wonderful 2010. I know I will, with more towing, more baying, more lap sitting, more stink, more refusing to leave the park, more vet bills, more astonishing the tourists, more monopolizing the furniture, more sticking my nose into everyone’s food, more planting my nose into a spot in the earth whilst my humans try not to freeze to death, more flinging drool onto unsuspecting persons, and in short, more ME! Who could ask for a better 2010?

Until next time,

Wimsey, A Hound of Several Different Colors