Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #130

July 26, 2009

Entry #130

Hello everyone, whimsical Wimsey here coming to you from Manhattan’s exciting Upper West Side where lots of fun stuff has been going on in spite of this week’s muggy weather. But first, let me say that if my one blog post a week is simply not enough Wimsey for you, you can now follow me on Twitter (go to twitter.com, sign up and follow WimseyNY—plain old Wimsey is apparently a parrot so although my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth ((especially her friend Elizabeth)) often refer to me as a bird brain I think the difference will become apparent if you try to follow the avian Wimsey).

Now Twitter is very interesting as I can issue short tweets about my views and activities throughout the day and you get to know exactly what I am doing at all times. It is kind of like being the King of France—French court ceremonial was so structured that one always knew what the king was doing merely by looking at a clock.

Courtier 1: Fetch the Royal Bloodhound. His Majesty wishes to view him.

Courtier 2: The Royal Bloodhound apparently does not wish to view his Majesty. He has decided to dig up the queen’s favorite rose bush instead.

Courtier 1: But it is 11:05 and His Majesty always views his Hound at that time.

Courtier 2: I suppose we could tell His Majesty that the Hound stole too much foie gras from the Comte de Baskerville’s table last night and is indisposed.

Courtier 1: But the Hound is always stealing too much foie gras from the Comte de Baskerville’s table and is never indisposed.

Courtier 2: I think that the Royal Master Poop Bearer would disagree, but perhaps we could tell the king that the Hound is off hunting some luscious and exotic animal for tonight’s royal repast.

Courtier 1: Yes, but the last time we tried that the Hound just brought home a colorful snake that His Majesty refused to consume.

Courtier 2: Perhaps His Majesty would settle for viewing the Royal Terrier instead?

Courtier 1: No, he does that at 2:10. Besides it bit him last time.

Courtier 2: Well, would he settle for something similar. Say the Royal Beagle?

Courtier 1: No. And anyway the Royal Beagle isn’t available. He’s eating.

Courtier 2: Well we could say that the Royal Hound is off fighting the English in the service of His Majesty.

Courtier 1: Didn’t we just finish fighting the English?

Courtier 2: We never finish fighting the English. But I have it! We will just send the Hound’s extreme regrets and inform His Majesty that the Hound is busy making sure that the royal kennels will be fully stocked with the next generation of Royal Hounds.

Courtier 1: Brilliant! What King of France would not admire such a devotion to such a duty?

Or else, perhaps if the King of France had Twitter:

1:04 am: Can’t sleep. The Hound is snoring.

2:15 am: Awakened by Hound having another baying dream. Hope he is catching something edible.

5:30 am: Hound snuffled my face. Let him out into the garden. Brought in a dead rat. Wanted to sleep with it.

7:00am: Courtiers arrive with coffee and croissants. Hound stole the croissants again. Wish he’d let me have one. Need to be faster.

7:30 am: Hound staring at me while I use the chamber pot. Very unnerving.

8:00am: Royal lace maker called in to repair yet another hole in my frill. She’s threatening to quit.

8:30am: Hound is trying on my wig. He looks very cute. Courtiers very impressed.

8:31 am: Courtiers suggest making Hound his own wig. Might save wear and tear on mine.

8:45 am: Crisis! Courtiers unable to find pair of unchewed shoes.

9:00 am: Levé complete. Make my entrance into Court. Everyone very impressed by my power and majesty. Effect somewhat marred by Hound peeing on the carpet.

No man is a hero to his Hound. But seriously even apart from Twitter this has been a fantastic week. Elizabeth (with whom I now spend my afternoons) paid a visit to Bed Bath & Beyond and brought home two big bags of stuff. She was really pleased with her purchases until she realized that all of them involved me (an air tight container to keep my kibble super fresh ((I am on Wysong now and liking it very much—even my humans think it smells good, which is a bit troubling as their taste in smells is abysmal)) an elevated feeding station, a water purifying pitcher because she gets very thirsty after our afternoon tows and new bath mats to keep me from slipping in the bath. Then she popped over to Laytner’s Linens to avail herself of a sale and bought four new bath towels for me. (I am major consumer of towels and like to imbue them with an artistic Swiss cheese motif). She is still in the market for a reed dispenser. Can’t think why. President Obama doesn’t need stimulus plans, he needs Hounds.

And then, once again, I dropped in on all my friends at the vet’s office. I visit quite frequently as I like to acquire a varied assortment of ailments that are minor, expensive and inconvenient to my humans. My current favorite (if we don’t count the small fortune spent on testing my poop for non-existent parasites that could, but aren’t, responsible for some of my more spectacular excretory productions), is a slight irritation on a very, ahem, intimate piece of my anatomy. The vet recommended irrigating the area with Nolvasan solution and applying a warm compress. Since Elizabeth was in charge of compressing and rubbing ointment into my anal area during the Great Anal Gland Episode a Christmas ago, she has apparently been drafted for these ministrations also. The vet wants a video.

Let’s see, then also this week I was invited to be in the Nikon Cool Pix Circle. This is a program where the folks at Nikon send a blogger one of four cameras of their choice, gratis, for use for three or six months, after which time the blogger can either send the camera back to Nikon or buy it at a discount. I just need to post some of my pics on a Cool Pix Flickr website and discuss my experiences—pro and con with other members of the circle and with the company. I also get to nominate three other bloggers for the program and the company will invite one of them to join the circle. I will let you all know how it goes. Starting next week pictures of my über Houndiness will be taken with the new camera—let me know if you notice a difference. Of course I expect that this camera-- like the current one-- will be covered in bits of bribing turkey. Photographing me doesn’t come cheap. In fact nothing does.

Well, in addition to visiting the vet, signing up for Twitter, getting a free camera, having a new feeding station and being provided with soft cotton towels in beautifully chewable colors I have also been consorting with pirates—pirates being very much humans after my own heart (yo ho ho and an entire roast chicken and all that) in Central Park. Now it is axiomatic that one can find anything in New York City, so the sight of a pirate lounging about in Central Park is treated with casual aplomb by those of us who live here (Elizabeth claims to have once seen a man painted green and wearing a toga walking up Fifth Avenue and receiving only the most cursory of glances from pedestrians). Of course this fellow is not a real pirate but is only pretending to be one (we hope!) to entertain the tourists and pose for pictures (NB: he doesn’t accept turkey as payment). The ladies thought he was pretty cute and as usual I was only too happy to assume my wingman role and facilitate an introduction. Personally I think it would be pretty cool to be walking down the street with a pirate at the other end of the leash—but I bet I would still get more attention. Guy dressed like a pirate? (Ho hum); a Giant Hound? (Yippee!) No one ever said New Yorkers were normal people.

And we also saw this lady—a mime I have encountered before but am not allowed to get too close to on account of the fact that she is painted white. And then it occurred to me that plenty of people would pay a Hound good money (or a lot of turkey) not to talk or to move. But since I get more attention than either mimes or pirates maybe I should be compensated as well.

Anyway although I am an excellent wingman the whole human man-woman thing puzzles me. Among Hounds we gentlemen compete for the ladies, not the other way around, and they are a tough bunch I can tell you.

Hound Speed Dating

Wimsey: Hello, my name is Wimsey. May I mate with you?

Lady Hound 1: Certainly not! You are entirely too smooth a character. Next!

Wimsey: Hello, my name is Wimsey. May I mate with you?

Lady Hound 2: Well, in the first place that would be very difficult with your nose in its current position. Kindly remove it or I will give you a good nip.

Wimsey: But do I have a chance?

Lady Hound 2: No. Your ears are too short—I like my males with a lot of extra length. Next!

Wimsey: Hello, my name is Wimsey. May I mate with you?

Lady Hound 3: You smell awful! Did someone just bath you?

Wimsey: Unfortunately yes. But it wasn’t my idea. I’ll be magnificently odiferous in a few days.

Lady Hound 3: Well come back then. In the meantime I suggest you go roll on a rat. Next!

Wimsey: Hello, my name is Wimsey. May I mate with you?

Lady Hound 4: I’m not in the mood. I only came here to accompany a friend who is in the mood.

Wimsey: Do you think she would like me?

Lady Hound 4: I don’t think you’re her type.

Wimsey: Why not? I am large, handsome, not too bright, loud, drooly, smelly (excepting the first 48 hours after a bath), massively destructive and insanely manipulative. What more could one want in a Hound?

Lady Hound 4: Nothing. She’s a bichon.

So you can see my humans aren’t the only ones whose love life leaves a lot to be desired.

Anyway, this week we come to the last Institute of Houndish Art masterwork from the second grade class at the Denali Elementary School in Fairbanks, Alaska. This dynamic work is by Droven and is entitled, “Wimsey is Running At You. He’s Going to Jump on You.” It’s almost as if the artist has looked into my soul in order to create this piece of art—from my deep forehead wrinkle to the determined look in my eyes to my flying ears, the artist has captured the exact moment before impact. And what wonderful color and symmetry—from the two pieces of flanking vegetation in the background—their colors echoing that of my tongue—to the placement of the magnificent Hound, dead center where he belongs. The artist has made use of extensive cross hatching to lend the scene additional movement and drama. What a wonderful piece with which to end our examination of these young artists! We can only hope that they will continue to develop their talent and especially to keep creating art in which I form the central feature.

Well that about wraps it up for this week’s post. Hope to see you all on Twitter.

Until next time,

Wimsey, the Tweet Hound.

(I love to nap like this!)

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #129

Entry #129
July 24, 2009

Hello Everyone. It’s me Wimsey coming to you from my Hound Empire on Manhattan’s Upper West Side where I rule my admiring subjects with a velvet paw. (I reserve the imperial iron paw for thwacking humans who have stopped petting me).

This week has been rather uncomfortably humid, with the exception of Sunday when I spent the day as usual in the Central Park with my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth. It was a magnificent summer day, and I too, as usual was magnificent—towing and baying and flinging drool with abandon. In addition to contemplating a line of intimate support wear for the larger male canine my humans are thinking about developing drool shields.

And this week someone asked Maria if I was a tick hound. Now considering the amount of money spent on my parasite screens I suppose she certainly hoped not. And although I have been mistaken for a large numbers of breeds in the AKC registry I have to admit that I have never been mistaken for an arachnid before (largely owing I suspect to my enormous size and being minus a few legs --can you imagine the towing possibilities of having eight legs!). But I suppose the fellow recognized a parasitic species when he saw one. Of course the guy also could have thought I was a blue tick coonhound but then we have the problem of me not being blue, ticked or a coonhound, so I am sticking with the parasite theory.

Anyway as you can see by the sign, perfection does indeed have its price—it’s just that I don’t happen to be the one paying it. That privilege falls to my humans. I myself know the value of everything and the cost of nothing to re-interpret the famous Oscar Wilde phrase. And one of the things of highest value—particularly in this sticky weather—is the taking of a long nap in cool air conditioned splendor. So here to illustrate is a little nap montage.





And while I nap—sometimes quite vigorously—my humans always wonder what I am dreaming about.

Things I Dream About:

Pooping over the Central Park roadway so the poop falls on passing cars (my humans seem loathe to let me do this however many times I try)
Liver furniture

Producing the next generation of Wimseys

Being let loose in Barnes and Noble (we Wimseys have an appetite for educational materials)

Patrolling with the officers of the 20th precinct and poking my muzzle into the sensitive bits of the perps

Being hand fed roast turkey without getting a bath at the same time

Squirrel tartare

Having my humans’ undivided attention (oops, a bit of reality crept in there)


Also this week my friend Bentley (http://droolydogsblog.blogspot.com/) mentioned that his humans attended a book signing of dog trainer Joel Silverman’s book “What Color is Your Dog.” The premise of the book is that dogs can be assigned colors according to their temperament and trained using techniques appropriate to their type. So I had a look at the bloke’s website with the intention of devising some creative countermeasures should my humans ever be so misguided as to try this out on me, but sadly I didn’t fall into any of the types—I am apparently a Hound of a different color. In order to rectify this omission I think the book needs an additional section:

What Color is Your Hound?

Khaki: This is a reserved Hound who is primarily interested in the goods and services that can be provided to him by his friends and family rather than by the public at large. He is quite methodical when he destroys your possessions and will find the most efficient means of doing so. He is not an especially creative thinker and can be relied upon to stick to the classics such as chewing up shoes and eating pillows and to tried and true activities such as raiding the garbage bin. The Khaki Hound is seldom alarmed when his activities come to the notice of his humans— often preferring to nap during their hysterical recriminations. In fact the dignity and sang froid of this Hound are such that the hollering humans are made to feel ashamed of and embarrassed by their emotive outbursts. The Khaki Hound is fond of getting his own way and succeeds through patience, calm and the relentless pursuit of his own interests.

Puce: The Puce Hound appears to be rather a timid creature. In fact everyone feels so bad about his being timid that he is accorded every indulgence. His smallest doings are made much of, he is showered with affection at all times and the fact that he has eaten an entire library’s worth of books is hailed as well worth the price of his happiness. He sits on laps, gets fed from the table and receives the entire contents of the Pet Edge catalog in tribute. Nothing that upsets him is ever done to him—the feeling being that that would be cruel. He is invited onto the bed, taken out as much as possible for confidence building walks, and belly rubbed into oblivion. Other animals are often acquired solely to keep him company and to amuse him. When the Puce Hound asserts itself his humans rejoice—“Hurray the Puce Hound stole my sandwich—that took an admirable amount of courage and initiative!” The Puce Hound always gets what it wants because everybody around him thinks it’s what they want too.

Azure: The Azure Hound is often called the Einstein of Hounds because he is exceptionally clever, wily and manipulative—but only about matters regarding his personal comfort and satisfaction. With respect to all other matters his IQ, like most Hounds, is only slightly above that of a ficus. And with respect to the learning of and adhering to obedience commands his IQ is closer to that of a rock. While more outgoing with strangers than the Khaki Hound, the Azure Hound restricts his efforts to those strangers who have something he wants. He can then be the most charming of Hounds. The Azure Hound is also the kind of Hound who will not be fooled by human stratagems aimed at hiding desirable items, such as that new pair of Italian pumps and his desire for a snack will not be foiled by a closed refrigerator door. He is at heart a problem solver. The Azure Hound will not be misled by casual human behaviors designed to lure him into a false sense of security before the doom of an impending bath, vet visit, nail clipping, ear cleaning or any other disobliging activity occurs. Once he detects even the subtlest of human subterfuges he will make himself spectacularly unavailable. The Azure Hound is fond of getting his own way and succeeds through guile, wit and an uncanny ability to make humans love him.

Fuchsia: The Fuchsia Hound is a bold and confident Hound. He knows he is the master of all he surveys and lives securely in the knowledge that he is entitled to everything humans possess-- his family and everything they own—especially the contents of the refrigerator and laundry bin-- belong to him. Interesting strangers also belong to him. (Uninteresting strangers are beneath his notice and he will ignore them no matter how pathetically they plead for his attention). This is not to say that the Fuchsia Hound is ever aggressive—he simply appropriates what he requires knowing full well that no one ever has the heart to deny him. If someone does try to deny him he simply channels the immortal words of tennis great John McEnroe—“You cannot be serious!” and tries again. And again. And again. And again. And again…And victory is his when the humans finally lose patience and flee screaming from the room. In fact the Fuchsia Hound is so confident in the rectitude of his cause that he is prepared to devote an infinite amount of time and persistence to its successful conclusion—the ultimate Outwit, Outplay and Outlast (especially outlast) survivor. And eventually those around him understand the futility of denying him anything he wants. So what if they have to watch Monday Night Football on the floor because the Fuchsia Hound requires the couch or they have to spend a half hour quietly standing next to a bush because the Fuchsia Hound has found an interesting smell. The Fuchsia Hound will either get his way or drive you mad trying.

Chartreuse: The Chartreuse Hound is the life of the party. And if there isn’t a party he will create one with his own hilarious antics. The Chartreuse Hound is often to be found running through his abode with some prized possession flapping provocatively in his flews and a pack of irate humans in hot pursuit. The Chartreuse Hound is a social fellow and is never happier than when knocking down unsuspecting guests or smearing them with his own special embrocation of drool and detritus. The Chartreuse Hound is a natural clown and if he can’t get your attention by stealing your socks or knocking you over he is likely to be found sitting in the middle of the dining room table eying the chandelier or chewing up the newly delivered mail. The Chartreuse Hound is busy, busy, busy and believes that idle paws could lead directly to the obedience ring. He is the complete outdoorsman and prides himself in striking terror into the hearts of anything with fur or feathers. He also enjoys botanical research and will exhume popular garden specimens for more thorough and complete investigations. Humans living with a Chartreuse Hound are said to consume an above average amount of alcohol and frequently resort to tranquilizers and ear plugs (the Chartreuse Hound is generally vocally exuberant). The Chartreuse Hound is fond of getting his own way which he does by applying the tenets of the Olympic motto: faster, higher, stronger.

But regardless of whatever color your Hound is, training is not recommended as it is generally going to be a colossal waste of time. However, anyone interested in making the attempt, is advised to begin with a modest 50,000 repetitions per day and the treat equivalent of entire cooked cow.

Personally I think it is much easier to train humans. For instance the only command word I know is “sit” (I also know the word “Elizabeth” but uttering this word generally has the unfortunate consequence either getting me riled up if I am indoors or causing hard towing towards her apartment if I am outdoors so “Elizabeth” is really kind of an anti-obedience command). If I hear the word “sit” I immediately swing into analysis mode:

Wimsey’s Decision Tree Analysis

A. Is there a piece of food being conspicuously brandished?

1. Is this piece of food desirable—say a piece of turkey?

a. if the piece of food is desirable will sitting prevent me from achieving some more interesting goal such as treeing a squirrel or inserting my nose into another dog’s fragrant posterior?

b. is there an alternative means to obtaining the turkey other than the sit?
-will baying at the turkey result in me obtaining it?
- am I in range to effect a snatch and grab?

c. why am I being asked to sit?

-is sitting a prelude to something unpleasant?

-perhaps ear cleaning solution will be poured down my ears

-maybe a gentle leader will be used to restrain me

- am I going to be measured for another new piece of annoying apparel?

-is some heretofore unknown and unpleasant activity being contemplated?

-will sitting embolden my humans to try and teach me other commands?

So you see the decision as to whether or not to sit requires the careful weighing and balancing of many complex factors, all of which might lead the untutored observer to think that the delay means I am a bit thick, but really it’s quite the opposite. In contrast my humans know many commands.

They know:

feed me a cookie

fetch me a drink of water

give me a scratch

give me a belly rub

turn on the air conditioner, I’m hot

no, we are not going that way, we are going this way

sit—I need a lap in which to place my tush

give me more food

give me more of your food

come

go

stay

get that thing away from me

give me the water bottle
get out of bed

show me the contents of the shopping bag

show me the contents of the toilet

I don’t wish to take a bath

buy me some Grom Gelato

And many more actually.

But somehow I don’t really think this makes them more intelligent do you?
Well as per usual we will end our visit with a trip to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art where we have been examining the art of the second grade class of the Denali Elementary School in Fairbanks, Alaska.

Our first masterwork is by Karolyn: You and Wimsey at the Park Wimsey is Visiting My Dog. Now here we see a work with an almost textile like quality—with bands of color at the top and bottom. I am instantly recognizable by my exaggerated V-shaped forehead wrinkle, my large size and my prominent position at the center of the composition. A small canine joins me in the center and we are flanked by our humans clearly in subordinate positions. In this case the composition relates to the artist’s belief in the primacy of the canine which she has made so beautifully obvious.

Our next work is by Donny and it is entitled: Wimsey is Playing Ball With the Other Dog. Now this is a superb work of Dali-esque surrealism. The world has been reduced to what appears to be a maze, populated with pointy buildings and trees—fertility symbols perhaps. My figure has assumed an insectival or should I say arachnoid appearance as I seem to have eight legs and I am glancing at a blue caterpillar masquerading as a dog, which might be a symbol of the limits of our earthbound existence before we ascend to the heights of the butterfly. Who knows? Nobody could figure out Salvador Dali either. And there is genius in enigma. Especially in art.

Anyway, that’s all for this week. Hope everyone is keeping as cool as I am, literally and figuratively.

Until next time,
Wimsey, a Hound of many colors

Wimsey's Blog:Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #128

Entry #128

July 17, 2009

Hello everyone--Wimsey here, coming to you from the icky sticky and newly tropical island of Manhattan. I have been swanning around in my Ruff Wear Swamp Cooler cooling coat whilst my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have been sweltering in their customary t-shirts and jeans. But the miracle is that no one has been yelling at us on the street about the fact that I am wearing a coat on a hot day and I look so official in the coat that some people have even asked if I am a working dog. Of course I am a working dog, it’s just that I seldom work on things people actually want me to be working on:

Things I am always working on:

Places to poop that require my humans to be contortionists to pick up

Terrorizing people with small dogs with my robust greeting bays

Acting as a living reed dispenser for my intoxicating aroma

Covering the Upper West Side in pee

Assisting Homeland Security by inspecting the grocery bags of unsuspecting passersby

Making sure my humans don’t consume too much of their food

Improving our social life by towing my humans to the Boat Basin Café

Increasing the profits of Grom Gelato

Performing reflexology on human internal organs

Confiscating ecologically harmful water bottles

Entertaining tourists and making sure they leave the city with appropriate souvenirs on their clothing

Helping the vet build a new house

Anyway, perhaps I would offer to lend my humans my cooling coat if I were a Golden Retriever or some other caring breed, but alas for them I am a Hound. Sharing is not in our genetic makeup.

The Genetic Makeup of the Hound

Stinc: the gene that insures that within 48 hours of getting a bath I will need another one

Drule: the favorite gene of the dry cleaning industry

Entitle: the gene that underpins my belief that humans cannot do enough for me

Destruct: the gene that guarantees you will not get too attached to your possessions

Shove: the gene that means that no matter how large the bed or the couch I need to be in the spot currently occupied by you

Peski: the gene that renders pointless any activity in which I am not intimately involved

Loud: the gene that requires that all emotions and desires be acoustically expressed

Bathroom: the gene that mandates my supervision of all activities that occur therein except my bath

Nail: the gene that acts as a strong repellent to clippers, grinders or any other implement aimed at impeding the luxurious growth of my talons

Nose: the most powerful and active of the Hound genes that necessitates that organ’s insertion into everything from the posteriors of other dogs to your dinner, generally in that order.

Well in spite of the weather I have had a lot of fun this week, but that is not surprising as it is generally my mission to have a lot of fun every week. My Sunday walk for instance was quite exciting. First I ran into my friend Spencer who I enjoy giving a good sniff to. And for his part Spencer enjoys relieving my humans of as many biscuits as possible in a short a period of time. I’ll bet you would never guess that a mere biscuit could elicit such a marvelous degree of intensity—and such delightful facial wrinkles! And it was all “Now if we could only get Wimsey to pay attention to us like that!”

Then almost as soon as we entered the park we ran into the Bassett Boys—Loogi and Guinness who I have not seen in some time. Apparently their human moved five blocks north which is the New York City equivalent of moving to a foreign country. Now Elizabeth had this idea that somehow she was going to get a picture of us all neatly lined up and looking at the camera but then she remembered we were Hounds and gave up.

Let’s see, also on Sunday I was treated to an extensive session with the Zoom Groom-- the object of the exercise being the diminution of my drain clogging hair during the projected Sunday evening edition of Wimsey Bath Night. It didn’t work. But I enjoyed the massage anyway. Then as we were meandering along I dove into a pile of bushes leading my humans to fear that I might emerge with a dead squirrel or some other such desirable object, so they were much relieved when I seemed to emerge without anything dead hanging out of my mouth. In fact at first glance it appeared that I had come up empty mouthed so to speak, but upon closer examination my exquisite find was revealed—a baseball!

Well this was quite delightful, especially as we were heading in the homeward direction and I was able to forestall our progress by chasing the ball around and then lying in the grass chewing on it. So what with all the socializing, the baseball and some obligatory roaching we were out for another four hour jaunt and then it was over to Elizabeth’s for a bath. Technically I was the one getting bathed but in reality we all share in the experience. And it was determined that the degree of my smelliness was such that I am likely to require another bath in the very near future.

And then on Tuesday our new friend Mary from Louisville, Kentucky was back in town and she and her boyfriend joined my entourage. And on this visit she was treated to the complete Wimsey Experience—I was in fine voice so she got to hear some impressive baying and then we all headed over to Grom Gelato where I imposed by usual Gelato Tax in which I require a spoon feeding of one cup vanilla per visit-- much to the admiration of the general public. (You can watch a video of me being Grommed or listen to my baying when I “find” Elizabeth if you got to youtube.com and search for Wimsey). I am really a very dainty eater and surprisingly little of the gelato ends up on my nose (I exhibit the same delicacy when I impose my Tuna Fish Sandwich Tax also). Of course some of it does get flung on passersby but then no one ever said the streets of New York City were safe. And speaking of safety, there were a group of police officers in front of Mary’s hotel and she was able to witness firsthand my affinity with these protectors of the peace. We engaged in prolonged discussion about the possibilities of criminalizing the Gentle Leader. And of course the other hotel guests—especially those from the South—were also delighted to make the acquaintance of so fine a Hound as myself.

And we walked home along Amsterdam Avenue-- which is lined with outdoor restaurant tables-- people were calling to me and making those smoochy noises humans produce to attract canine notice. It seems never to occur to them that they are sitting in front of plates of food loaded onto tables that are exactly my height. You would think they might get a clue by the look of horror on my human’s faces (they being fully aware that according to the Wimsey Doctrine calling me when food is in evidence is tantamount to inviting me to partake). Of course it is extremely vexing to be hauled away from these humans engaged in food sharing behavior and my humans are often tempted to teach them a lesson by letting nature take its course. I, needless to say, am very much in favor of this.

Tuesday was also Bastille Day and I honored my French heritage (please no squawking from Belgium —it didn’t exist when my ancestors were brought to the Monastery of St. Hubert)-- by stealing French fries, sniffing people’s baguettes, kissing my humans when they were talking with the predictable result and playing with Norman the French bulldog.

Wimsey's Bastille Day Message

Heureux Quatorze Juillet! Bonjour mes amis deFrance. Je m'appelle Wimsey qui est un nom tres sissy mais c'est pas ma faute. (Mon human, tres senitmentale, admire le Lord Peter Wimsey qui est un detective de la fiction anglaise--quelle horreur---moi, un chien de St. Hubert nomme apres un sissy anglais). En realite je suis un chien massif et tres masculin avec des gonades tres beaux, grands et completement admirables. j'habite a New York avec ce human qui s'appelle Maria. Elle n'a pas le sens de habiter avec un chien de normal size. Mais les New Yorkais aiment et admire moi beaucoup mais occassionalement ils yell quand je fling le drool ou pressez mon nez grand et magnifigue dans leurs crotches. Mais, c'est normal. Je suis un Hound. Malheursement, ici a New York je ne suis pas welcome dans les restaurants, cafes et bars comme en France--un pays beaucoup plus civiliise qui concerne les grands smelly chiens et leur effet sur la hygiene d'alimentation. Et J'adore la cuisine francaise---les innards, le pate, les cute animaux comme bunnies et tous dans les sauces de creme. Et les frommages qui sont plus smelly que moi. Alors, Vive la France, pays natal original des Wimseys!

Well anyway, those were all the important events of the week and as is our custom we end this post with a visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art where we examine the artistic endeavors of the second grade class at the Denali Elementary School in Fairbanks, Alaska. Our first work is by Aluana and is entitled Wimsey is Looking Out a Railing Outside. Here we see a stunning work heavily influenced by masterpieces of African Art. The fierce expression on the face of the Hound and his open mouth ready at any moment to swallow up a hunk of stolen food make him a creature to be reckoned with. The artist has also used some artistic license in my coloring to create a symmetry between the black and the brown in my coat and has reversed the coloring of my head and my impressive forehead wrinkle. The black ear tips add balance to the piece and the whole is framed by a lighter rectilinear brown frame. A most impressive effort.

Next we have a seasonal piece by Scarlette: Wimsey’s Christmas Time By a Big Building and Wimsey is Wearing a Christmas Hat. Here we immediately notice the beautiful use of color and rhythm in the cross hatchings of the big building and how the little bits of green echo the green of the Christmas tree. The Hound stares at the viewer with an equivocal expression on his face—perhaps he is not happy about being forced to wear a Santa Hat. Or perhaps he is just deciding on whether or not to pee on the tree. A lovely thing to look at when the weather outside is steamy.
Well that’s it for this week. I am hoping for less moist conditions next week—you know something is amiss when Central Park is awash in mushrooms and other assorted fungi.

Until next time,

Wimsey, Le Chien de Stink Formidable

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #127

Entry #127
July 10, 2009

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here coming to you from the summery precincts of Manhattan’s Upper West Side where the streets smell delightfully of things that only a Hound could love and I smell delightfully of things only my humans could love—or not. Based on the plethora of olfactory oriented comments this week I suspect that my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth are cooking up another episode of Wimsey Bath Night. And just when my stink is starting to achieve its maximum potential, too.

And on the subject of grooming, as I previously mentioned my humans have been testing out the R-7 ear cleaning system and there is good news and bad news. The good news is, first of all, that I permit them to get anywhere near my ears with the stuff and the second is that it does dry out and prevent the dreaded and itchy Hound Ear Gunk--but only on the outer portions of the ear. I am definitely less itchy but the only way to get into the ear canal itself would be to pour the old ear cleaning solution that the vet recommended down the canal. I am sure this solution would work if only I would permit my humans to do it. Formerly when this product was used it was administered via cotton pads saturated with the stuff and squeezed into the ear canal. The consequences of my humans doing this were that they had to listen to many happy hours of me shaking my head and throwing myself against the walls and floors. (I can be quite dramatic when I am displeased). As a result my humans didn’t end up using the product with the requisite frequency (“Wimsey looks so happy. Do we really want to ruin his day with the ear cleaning solution?”). So they have switched to the more imperfect but doable R-7, with periodic professional ear cleaning at the vet’s.

Anyway, we had a wonderful Fourth of July weekend —I scored a real bonanza in the plastic bottle department—first there was this nice group of Hound lovers hanging out on their stoop. They were kind enough to empty their bottles and toss them my way in order to watch me play with them. Then I happened upon a bevy of police officers in the parking lot of the 20th precinct, many of whom were fortuitously armed with water bottles. When I politely produced some arresting sonorous bays directed at these bottles, several of them were promptly emptied and donated for my enjoyment. They really are New York’s Finest.

The weather here over the Fourth was very nice and as a consequence we spent quite a bit of time hanging out in Central Park where I made an exciting discovery-- trees are really just collections of sticks and these sticks don’t have to be on the ground for me to chew on them.. Maria took these pics rather hurriedly because she feared that the chewing of sticks while they are still actually attached to trees would violate some park ordinance resulting in a hefty fine. It’s a good thing that Hounds are not assessed penalties like the ones imposed at football games:

Wimsey’s Lexicon of Hound Penalties

Interference: interfering with humans trying to sleep, eat, use the toilet, take a bath, drink a cocktail, watch TV, use the computer, remain uninjured, have friends, remain clean, smell nice or have a life.

Out of Bounds: chewing under, around or through a fence meant to restrain the naturally investigative nature of the Hound.

Intentional Grounding: excessive exuberance when greeting. (also imposed for body slamming, particularly at the back of the knees)

False Start: eeling through a partially opened door to begin a constitutional sans Hound restraining equipment

Illegal Procedure: taking a conspicuous dip in Bethesda Fountain

Tripping: suddenly wheeling perpendicular to an oncoming human causing the human to fall over the Hound. Also imposed for lying at full stretch in the middle of the kitchen floor during meal preparation times

Encroachment: a stealthy maneuver whereby a Hound obtains possession of the couch without a human noticing that they are suddenly sitting on the floor

Holding: sitting on a human and refusing to move.

Clipping: Hounds never permit this maneuver.


Unnecessary Roughness: what a Hound does if clipping is ever attempted

Unsportsmanlike Behavior: the behavior of a Hound


There is actually a field hockey penalty called “sticks” which I suppose in my case would mean chewing on them when they were actually still branches.

Well after a lovely time in the park we all repaired chez moi for cocktails, pizza and a Star Trek DVD. (I am James T. Wimsey, Captain of the starship Couch…my endless mission to boldly annoy in ways no Hound has annoyed before...) Now Elizabeth discovered that trying to drink a cocktail, nibble nuts and watch a DVD is extremely difficult with a generously proportioned Hound sitting in her lap—especially as any diminution in petting was immediately met with a painful thwack of a giant paw or the application of gentle pressure on the internal organs. It was hard to tell whether the shrieks were due to the exciting antics of the crew of the Enterprise or because of the leverage I was bringing to bear on her various nerve endings. And the fact that she was forced to look at the screen by peering around or above my head lent that desirable air of theater-like verisimilitude. I really don’t believe that any DVD is quite as interesting as watching my head. I mean who wants to watch intergalactic space battles when one could be admiring my ponderous wrinkles or my lovely ear set.

Now a lot of people spent the holiday weekend traveling but those who stayed here indulged in the many cultural opportunities that New York City has to offer. For instance, we ran into this sign last week. I was very tempted to participate as the sign did say everyone was welcome and did not specify a species. And I excel at the chassé-- although I am not sure how they would feel about me chasse-ing the other dancers.

Also in Central Park over the summer there is Shakespeare in the Park. And as we were exiting the park yesterday my humans’ attention was caught by the sight of Meryl Streep walking towards us on her way over to the theater and my attention was caught by Meryl Streep walking towards us dressed all in white. Unfortunately I was walking in between my humans but they both quickly looked down at me and it was all “No Wimsey, there will be no flinging drool on theatrical legends. Especially those wearing white.” What can I say—where they see couture I see canvas. Anyway, I really like Shakespeare but I think some of his best lines could be improved:

Wimsey’s Guide to Shakespearean Quotes

What’s in a name? That which we call a Hound by any other name would stink as much.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps forth this heinous hound destroying all our possessions, dignity and self-respect. Out out annoying Hound. But he doesn’t listen—it is all sound and fury signifying nothing he is interested in listening to.

The lady doth protest too much methinks, after all she’s the one who got the Hound in the first place. And she can always buy new underwear.

If music be the food of love, bay on. And I will boil thee some more liver.

All the world’s a stage. And all the men and women merely players, controlled by their Hounds.

To bay or not to bay. That is the question. I think I’ll bay.

There are more things in heaven and earth Horatio that you ever dreamed your Hound could destroy

To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay there’s the belly rub.

Oh Hound. Hound. Wherefore art thou Hound? That silence cannot be good.

We are such stuff as dreams (or maybe nightmares) are made on

Parting with your possessions is such sweet sorrow

What a piece of work is a Hound

The fault dear Brutus is not in our stars but with our Hounds. They’ve trashed the place.

Out damned spot! Who would have thought the Hound would have so much drool in him.

Something is rotten in the State of Denmark and my Hound has rolled in it!


Well apart from the cultural activities in the park this week, I did run into an old friend—her name is Oreo and she is bigger than I am! And then while our humans chatted we had a little rest. Of course I seem to require lots of little rests on the path that leads to the exit nearest home. Also I find that on the way home there is much that urgently needs to be sniffed and sticks that it would be remiss of me not to chew. And benches that need to be climbed upon, etc. And when all else fails I simply flop down and refuse to move—a time honored houndly maneuver which brings a whole new meaning to illegal parking.

Anyway this week we finish up with our usual visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art where we are examining the art of the second grade class of the Denali elementary School in Fairbanks, Alaska. Our first artist is Akaylee and hers is an anthropomorphic piece of surrealism entitled This is Wimsey on a Walk in Town. We note with interest the strong verticals of the work (phallic symbolism being unusual in an artist so young however they do say kids grow up fast these days) and the underlying volumetric symmetry of the two narrow buildings being equal in width to the third. But the seriously interesting thing about the piece is the rendering of me—I have the body of a Hound and the face of a happy little girl. Kind of like a canine Sphinx minus the headdress and ancient provenance and wholly consistent with the surrealistic school of early children’s art.

And we can also see a touch of the surrealist school in our next work, Siearra’s Wimsey Chasing a Basketball in the Green Grass. Here we see how the artist has rendered the construction of the work in a series of echoing curves—from the swayed back of the Hound’s black saddle to the roundness of his head (with forehead wrinkle prominently displayed—perhaps to emphasize the sagacity of the Hound) to the curve of the ball. We even have a little hoop with my name engraved on it. The picture is framed by the rectilinear elements of the sun’s rays and the green grass. We note with interest however, that the Hound seems surreally human—his eyes are blue and he appears to have humanoid pink lips--a very fine fusion of classical and surreal elements.

Well that is all for this week. I am off to dream about policemen bearing water bottles and erudite Shakespearean Hounds (and Meryl Streep’s pristine suit).

Until next time,

Wimsey, formerly of Stratford Upon Hound

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #126

Entry #126
July 3, 2009

Hello Everyone. It’s me, Wimsey, wishing you a Happy Fourth of July from that historic epicenter of the nation, New York City. In spite of the continuing cool, wet and sticky weather all systems are go here in the Big Apple for a spectacular celebration. And as is the annual custom, many of the City’s residents have gone elsewhere to celebrate whilst the people from elsewhere have come to New York City to celebrate. This population exchange never made much sense to me but I suspect it is illustrative of that old adage, the grass is always greener on the side you have been prohibited from peeing on. Not of course that my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have much luck in preventing me from peeing anywhere that I choose to pee.

And speaking of peeing (an activity right up there with eating cooked meals, being spoon fed Grom Gelato, and napping on the furniture) my humans really got into the thick of it this week. Now many people associate the month of June with any number of things—weddings, Wimbledon, school vacation, etc., but Chez Wimsey June brings The Annual Veterinary Physical. And I have to say I love going to the vet. From the moment I walk in and get up on my hind legs to check in at the counter to the moment I leave, the adulation is pretty much non-stop. It would be a perfect experience if not for some pesky activities like having to give blood (a misnomer, since I don’t actually give it—hounds not being amenable to giving anything willingly, even blood; we’re much more skilled at the taking end of things—the blood is forcible removed from me) and having my ears reamed out. This year the vet said there was quite a bit of “debris” in my ears which somehow made it sound like I was harboring the unfortunate consequences of a U-boat attack in there instead of the more natural material relating to my incessant Houndly perambulations around Central Park.

Things appeared to be looking up when my internal organs were being massaged and I was being gently poked and prodded but then the vet handed Maria a cup and pointed us towards the door. Apparently a urine sample was required and if there is one thing I am abundantly endowed with (apart from the visibly obvious thing) it is urine. But I must say I found it extremely disconcerting that every time I lined myself up along a desirable vertical surface Elizabeth would squeal “Quick, he’s about to do it!” and Maria would dive under me, cup at the ready-- all of which was so distracting and annoying that I would be forced to lower my leg without having produced any of the desired precious bodily fluid. Now peeing is one of my favorite activities but this was a real buzz kill. And their urgency was patently absurd—it is not as if I ever run out of the stuff (I pride myself on my superior marking prowess, even after many hours in the park I never run dry or need to engage in embarrassing air marking). And then of course there was my natural Houndly tendency not to do anything that my humans want me to do, even if it’s something I normally enjoy doing, like peeing.

Anyway, they eventually obtained the required sample and we all headed back to the office, my humans proudly bearing forth the cup of golden liquid like Jason coming home with that coveted fleece. And then to compensate me for the ear reaming, the blood sucking needle and the humiliating pee collecting I was taken for a delicious cup of Grom Gelato. And as usual my gromming attracted the attention of the citizenry (“I see your Hound likes the good stuff” and so forth).

The joy of the vet visit was somewhat overshadowed by this week’s dismal weather-- we had quite a lot of rain and thunderstorms which meant that I got to debut my new raincoat. I have to say once I shook my head and freed my ears from that ridiculous hood, it wasn’t all that bad. I always pride myself on my conspicuous and eye catching appearance and being caparisoned in a swath of bright yellow vinyl only adds to the stunning visual effect. It was only a shame that there were not more people about braving the elements to admire me, although I did get a fair number of people to stop and gawk in the pouring rain. And the fact that my coat collection has invaded Maria’s scarce closet space is also a source of satisfaction, Hounds by their nature being an invasive species.

Well the other thing that June brings is Wimbledon and as I now spend my afternoons with Elizabeth I have been treated to a couchside seat to this event. Frankly I don’t understand the point—here’s this nice bouncy ball being thwacked about and the players are chasing it only to send it back to someone else to chase. And Elizabeth sits mesmerized watching this for hours-- as if she is viewing a room full of squirrels playing with a raccoon or something actually interesting. And she thinks I am mentally challenged. Anyway, Wimbledon isn’t all bad because Elizabeth keeps one hand on the remote and one hand on me scratching, in a most gratifying way—especially during the exciting tiebreaks. I would like to attend Wimbledon myself but am told that this would not be a good idea:

Reasons Why I Would Not Be Welcome at Wimbledon

I wear black and tan instead of white

No one else would be wearing white either

Strawberries and cream would vanish from people’s tables

The grounds would be well marked, only not with signs

The Centre Court spectators expecting to see tennis would see roaching instead

Players would have a hard time playing with just one tennis shoe

Balls would be snatched mid-point

If Rafael Nadal were playing he would have help tugging at his shorts

Baying would render the score inaudible

John McEnroe wouldn’t be tennis’ only bad boy

Mount Murray would be given a whole new meaning


Anyway in honor of our great Hound loving nation turning 233 tomorrow I thought we should review how it all came to be:

Wimsey’s Guide to American History: The Early Years

Jamestown 1607: Hoping to make lots of money for clothes fancier than those of the French king, King James I sends a bunch of city folk to exploit the uncharted wilderness of Virginia. Sadly the land already belonged to the Indians who were mighty cheesed off at this turn of events and captured the colony’s leader John Smith. Smith was spared execution through the good offices of his Hound who charmed Powhatan’s daughter Pocahontas (the words for “He’s so cute!” in Algonquin being lost to history) and offered to help the Indians find an abundance of juicy animals.

Plymouth Rock 1620: The Pilgrims, who were first kicked out of England for their religious beliefs and then out of Holland because of the stench of their Hounds, arrive in Massachusetts. They established the first civil government in the New World and while not always the most tolerant people on matters of religion, they display a deep affection and tolerance for their Hounds.

1754: The French and Indian War: The French and the English who had at this point been pretty much fighting for seven hundred years have at it again, this time in the New World. The French lose (a disturbing trend since 1066—too much fashion and foie gras perhaps?) and are forced to forfeit not only Canada and all lands east of the Mississippi but also their Hounds who fall under the protection of that rising military (and hound loving) star, George Washington.

1764-1767: Taxes, Taxes and more Taxes: King George, having spent a boatload of cash to once again vanquish the frogs, needed a new source of dosh, so Parliament began taxing all kinds of stuff in the colonies—sugar, stamps, glass, lead, paper, tea, etc (Sugar Act, Stamp Act, Townshend Act) which seemed reasonable to the Crown since beating the French never came cheap, even in the colonies. But it was a rumored tax on Hounds that galvanized Sam Adams’ Sons of Liberty (an offshoot of the original Hounds of Liberty) and caused the Virginia House of Burgesses and Hounds to bay “No taxation without representation.” Apparently the Brits feared that the rough hewn colonials would swamp Westminster with their stinky Hounds should they be accorded parliamentary representation.

1773: The Boston Tea Party: A group of rambunctious Hounds (accompanied by humans in fancy dress) trash a British ship containing tea to protest British meddling in colonial business affairs. Parliament, who clearly had no experience of how to manage unruly Hounds, enacted a series of punitive measures which only made the Hounds (and their humans) even more stubborn and riled up. They should have tried positive reinforcement. In addition to everything else, the British measures mandated the use of the Gentle Leader on all Hounds. It is for that reason they became known as The Intolerable Acts.

1775-1776: The Revolutionary War Begins and the Declaration of Independence is Signed: The Declaration, largely drafted by Thomas Jefferson was read to the Continental Congress--a body where large stinky Hounds were welcomed-- and made official on July 4, 1776. One has only to glance at the document to appreciate the influence of these Revolutionary Hounds—the inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, for instance, are key tenets of Houndly philosophy (especially the pursuit of happiness part).

1783: The Treaty of Paris: The Brits finally pack it in and return to the much more satisfying mission of annihilating the French. Fighting a guerilla war with the uncouth Americans and their legions of stinky and harassing Hounds proved to be just too much. It was bad enough that the Americans refused to wear brightly colored clothing and stand around in organized formations waiting to be shot, but their Hounds did serious damage to the supply lines and personal possessions of the troops. Lack of food and holes in one’s britches are demoralizing.

1787: The Constitution: Here we clearly see the impact of Hounds upon the Founding Fathers. Undoubtedly they had observed the havoc that an unchecked Dominant Hound can wreak on public order but that this Hound could be controlled by a pack of Hounds. And when the pack of Hounds got too frisky it was observed that a small group of Supreme Hounds who, quite exceptionally, have some brain cells, could step in and administer corrective nips. Thus was born the concept of checks and balances.

1803: the Louisiana Purchase: Napoleon needed money to fight the English (la plus ça change....) so in a real estate deal that would make Donald Trump weep he sold a vast stretch of territory west of the Mississippi to the fledgling US government for a mere $15 million (the price of a moderately nice New York City apartment). Hounds heartily approved of the transaction because there were rumors of abundant fur bearing animals throughout the territory.

1804: Lewis and Clark: The Hounds of Lewis and Clark chewed their way out of their fenced yard and headed West after the rumored abundant fur bearing animals. Lewis and Clark spent two years arduously tracking these Hounds, during which time they saw lots of stuff and met a bunch of famous Indians. When they finally caught up to the Hounds the duo were heard to administer a very stern “Bad dog!” The Hounds ignored this and promptly started America’s first line of fur lined dog coats and hats.

1812: The War of 1812: Guess what! The English and French were fighting again! Only this time America got in the middle and ended up fighting yet another war with the Brits who, much like Jennifer Aniston, never gave up hope of reclaiming what had been lost. Many heroic deeds were done, the Star Spangled Banner was written (although after seeing what his Hound had done to the flag its original title was The Star Mangled Banner), the White House was burned (and not by the opposition party either!) and against all odds, the British lost yet again-- at which point they decided to permanently focus on foes whom they could actually beat. Like the French.

And the rest, as they say, is history. Well anyway, the only other news around here is that last Sunday I was accompanied on my long Central Park walk by yet another admirer—her name is Mary and she lives in Louisville, Kentucky and has a Bloodhound-Lab mix. (Here are some pictures of her succumbing to the temptation to play with my ears and wrinkles). I like having these visiting entourages and am hoping to see her again on her next trip here where perhaps I might introduce her to the joys of Grom Gelato.

We conclude this holiday post with the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art’s continuing look at masterworks from the second grade class at the Denali Elementary School in Fairbanks, Alaska. Our first artist is Maurice with his dynamic Me Throwing a Stick and Wimsey Trying to Run and Jump and Get the Stick. Now personally, I love this piece, perhaps because it makes me look like an imposing black saddled dinosaur or perhaps because it is heavy on action. Here we see the artist using the Renaissance technique of including multiple time points in the same picture in order to tell a story—that of me demanding to have a stick thrown and then chasing it (notice the accuracy with which the artist never shows me bringing back the stick). He has clearly annotated the picture so there can’t be any misinterpretation of his work, a common problem amongst modern artists. Anyway this is a jolly picture—the sun is happy, the boy is happy and most important, I am happy.

Next we have another interpretation of a fetch scene: Isaac’s Me and Wimsey Are At the Front of the Hotel I Lived In Playing Fetch. First we note that the artist has divided the canvas in half—the green of the earthbound and the blue of the celestial. His abode, the hotel, seems to float off in celestial space, adding an immediacy to the earthbound activities, namely me awaiting the throwing of a stick. The artist has made particular note of my large feet—a feature much remarked upon in public—as well as my fine black saddle. The angle of my head indicates that I am probably about to bay for the stick to be thrown and the artist has chosen a fine orange for the sun to enhance the color of the pale blue sky and the yellow green grass. He has also chosen to include a small echoing and unattributed figure in the background which extensive academic research indicates is probably Gus, the resident bloodhound of Fairbanks, Alaska.

Well that was the week that was---hope you all enjoy your 4th and don’t forget to honor the contribution of the Hound to the Great American Story. Without us you’d all be having tea and crumpets instead of hot dogs and hamburgers.

Until next time,

Wimsey, An American Masterpiece
“Ask not what your Hound can do for you, but what you can do for your Hound”