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 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: 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.
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.
8:45 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 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!
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?
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.