Wimsey's Blog:Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #156

Entry # 156
February 12, 2010

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here coming to you from the Upper West Side of Manhattan where finally, finally we’ve had a bit of snow. But you wouldn’t think “a bit of snow” is what we were in for given the mass panic around here. Fueled by alarming statements from The Weather Channel (maybe it should be re-catorigized as an action adventure show) about monster storms and snowpocalypses—“snow storm and blizzard” being deemed far too tame to describe the actual dramatic process of snow falling—New Yorkers flocked to supermarkets in locust like droves to strip the shelves bare. Fairway ran short of milk, bread and eggs causing my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth to ponder whether the threat of snow engendered the massive making of French toast. I mean this is New York City where diligent shop keepers and restaurateurs will happily deliver all manner of comestibles to its citizens at all hours of the day or night, so it was hard to imagine that a bit of snow would cause the wheels of commerce to grind to such a halt. Elizabeth was particularly incensed to find two local wine stores (you know who you are) closed in the evening. Consuming snow induced wine and cheese sounds like a whole lot better of an idea than being surrounded by mounds of French toast.

But of course there was no panic chez moi—the ladies being armed with every conceivable piece of winter gear, (and I too posses a wardrobe of winter coats and oily spray for the protection of my delicate feeties). And in the event of a power outage Maria would have had me to keep her warm and to provide entertainment far superior to anything she could find on TV. So anticipation was high around here for some exciting weather, which in the end turned out to be not a monster storm, or a snowpocalypse or even a mundane blizzard, but just some snow, most of which was summarily removed by the next day, much to my chagrin.

The morning of the snow I was at the vet’s office spending C notes in profusion during the process of getting re-checked in an anatomical area that modesty forbids me to discuss (everything was fine). My apparent fondness for the vet (the ladies are convinced I develop ailments with the express purpose of visiting as much as possible) led my humans to once again give thanks for Embrace Pet Insurance which I would highly recommend (www.embracepetinsruance.com). My only point of contention is that when a reimbursement check went astray they sent a Starbucks card as an apology and I would have preferred a bully stick. Oh, and on the subject of canine medicine, my humans have found a wonderful cure for diarrhea—it turns out that the appearance of a fecal kit from the vet is guaranteed to induce the production of a beautiful, solid piece of poop.

But I digress. So anyway, I get out of the vet’s office and although it’s snowing all there seems to be on the street is slush, which is not pleasing to one of my non-boot wearing disposition. But then, we get to the park and magic happens! So much snow everywhere that I could hardly contain myself. It is for this reason that Elizabeth called a halt to the proceedings to strap on her newest find—stabilicers from LL Bean in the hope that they would provide sufficient purchase and traction for her to remain upright while attached to Snowdog Wimsey. Normally due to the cowardly interests of my humans in staying alive and out of the emergency room I am walked on the heinous gentle leader when there is snow. So you can imagine the trepidation with which Elizabeth, even newly stabiliced as she was, reluctantly removed the gentle leader and hooked me up to my prong—me, a mass of baying, raring to go 130 lbs of well-muscled Hound. And we were off! Although I lost my near mythic ability to convert the vertical to the horizontal the freedom to run, yank and tow unhampered by the gentle leader was well worth it. I am therefore endorsing the use of the stabilicers in my own interest.

Well the park was full of hearty people enjoying the conditions and of course enjoying watching (and listening to) me enjoy the conditions. I was photographed more times than Lady Gaga and those without cameras supplied a considerable amount of vocal approbation to the proceedings. This group asked to meet me, but then I was vocally eager to be on my way. Lacking sufficient canine companionship I was forced to play bow to humans which, mentally challenged as they are, they seemed not to comprehend. There is nothing as stimulating to a Hound as the sight of fields of fresh powder (well OK, maybe the sight of fields of fresh liver) and in the end Elizabeth was forced to run with me through the stuff. This led to some residual tenderness in her quadriceps which I was happy to help alleviate the next day with some scream inducing Wimsey shiatsu.

Well the snow was pretty much the highlight of the week except for the fact that Maria’s mother, hoping to mitigate New York’s chronic famine, sent another whacking great box of baked goods. And this time she cut a goodly number of these delicious pastries into Hound sized bites for yours truly. Not only are these things extraordinarily delicious but they are baked with love. But that’s probably because she’s never actually met me--although plans are underway for a spring expedition northwards to rectify the situation. An SUV suitable in size for one of my generous proportions and massive suite of luggage has already been reserved. Maria had suggested renting a compact, but then Elizabeth remembered the ease with which my chattels and I filled up an entire Jeep Commander and realism triumphed over economy. I am just hoping that further maternal acquaintance does not staunch the southerly flow of baked goods.

And Sunday was the Super Bowl (although my humans mostly watched the Puppy Bowl) which gave rise to fantasies of: Who dat on the 20 yard line? Dat Wimsey, a big, stinky Hound dat stole the ball.

Anyway this week there have been no more objectionable comments about me being well behaved-- although I am actually quite biddable. As in, what do you bid to be allowed to put on my walking equipment and what do you bid to get me to stop lap dancing and of course what to do you bid to be able to give me bath (do I hear a pound turkey or a hunk of roast beef?) And speaking of baths, it has been rather a long time since I had one owing to the cold and various scheduling conflicts but one is in the works. Apparently Maria put on her hat the other day (and not one of the ones I wear either) and realized it smelled like me. She’s worried that the emanation of Houndish odors in the workplace might be inimical to career development.

And of course Sunday is Valentine’s Day which is sad for my humans who, amazingly, remain single—I can’t imagine why:

Guy: Hi Maria. Would you like to go out some time?

Maria: That would be nice. When did you have in mind?

Guy: How about Saturday?

Maria: Oh. It’s Wimsey’s night to watch “It’s Me or the Dog” He likes to root for the dog.

Guy: OK. Friday then.Maria: That’s Dog Whisperer night and if I’m not around to restrain him Wimsey will pee on Cesar Millan.

Guy: Thursday?

Maria: That’s Wimsey’s massage night.

Guy: Wednesday?

Maria: Wednesday is unsuccessful grooming night.

Guy: What’s unsuccessful grooming night?

Maria: I try to clip Wimsey’s toenails and clean out his ears but he doesn’t let me.

Guy: What’s the point?

Maria: Well he does like to get his teeth brushed. Perhaps you’d like to come over and help me?

Guy: Is Elizabeth free?


Well, you get the idea. I am rather an all consuming kind of creature so on Sunday I will be the ladies’ Valentine. Just like on all the other days of the week.

And then on Monday and Tuesday there is the Westminster Kennel Club Dog show and although mercifully I won’t be there, Maria and Elizabeth will be cheering on the Hounds. I showed at Westminster for three years and for those of you who haven’t been to Westminster or a dog show, here is how it goes:

Wimsey’s Westminster Diary

Being Benched: Lots of people to admire me. Plenty of unsuspecting derrieres to goose. Giving newspaper and TV interviews. Pretty good gig so far.

Getting Ready: Getting sprayed with smelly stuff and wiped with chamois cloth. I seem to be very shiny. Need some dirt to roll in but none handy. Might try the shavings in the poop pen. My prong has been replaced with a piece of string. My humans looking terrified at this. Elizabeth wearing unflattering green show clothes. Nice jacket though. Suede shows up my drool rather well. If my muzzle gets wiped one more time with that wash cloth we’re gonna have a rousing game of kill the towel.

Waiting To Go On At Ringside: Oh good. Lots of dogs to sniff. Lovely group of bitches too. Hey, what do you mean no sniffing butts. I protest. Stop telling me to be quiet. Just let me go over there and sniff those dogs and I’ll shut up. I know everyone is looking at me. It’s a dog show. Aren't they supposed to be looking at me? What do you mean glaring isn’t looking. And pinning me against that wall won’t help.

The Entrance: Hurray! We’re on the move! If I gallop fast enough I’ll catch up with that dog’s butt ahead of me. Don’t even think of trying to make me trot. You’ve only got that piece of string around my neck remember.

The Stack: Stop playing with my legs! I’ve got four of them and every time you move one I’ll just re-position the others so I can stand in the most unattractive position possible. It’ll make me stand out from the others.

The Examination: Oh look I’m going over there to meet this nice lady. Hey lady, want to see my stack dance? Or how about a belly rub. While you’re back there would you give my testicles a scratch. The spray made them itchy. Mind if I rub my nose up and down your body while you’re busy feeling me up. Oops. Elizabeth ‘s a bit slow with that drool rag isn’t she. Sorry about that. But at least your jacket’s not suede.

The Down and Back: Hurray! Moving again. No dogs to gallop to, so I’ll just lumber along at the pace* (* for those unfamiliar with this gait, this is where I move both legs on the same side of my body). So much nicer a gait than the trot, don’t you think. Stop calling me Frankendog. And stop making me pick up my head. I’m a Hound. My nose belongs on the ground. I don’t care what it does to my top line. Why are you trying to stop me in front of the judge. I want to keep going. See how I’m straining against the piece of string around my neck.

The Wait: OK so now while we’re standing around while the judge is playing with the other dogs I think it’s a good time to socialize with my neighbors and maybe do a little more singing. Don’t think feeding me liver is going to stop me either. I can multitask—eating and misbehaving are easy to do at the same time. I’m a Hound.

The Cut: Your trying to stack me again. I thought we had this conversation before about how I am not going to do it. The judge is walking up and down the line pointing to dogs that aren’t me. Hurray. I win. I get to leave the ring and goose, and bay and fling drool the way nature intended.

I was quite a success as a show dog. Just not with my humans or the judges. But I made other people with bad dogs feel better and made Elizabeth look like an idiot, so it was all good. Anyway, on that note I will take my leave for the week. If you watch Westminster on TV think of me and thank your lucky stars you aren’t there taking me into the ring.

Until next time,

Wimsey, the people’s choice