February 25, 2010
Hello everyone, it’s me Wimsey coming to you from New York’s Upper West Side where I have been cutting quite a figure with my dashing wardrobe and acoustic antics. And speaking of wardrobes, everyone is waiting for Spring, especially my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth who are getting a bit fatigued with all the getting me dressed and getting me undressed and cleaning me up after every soggy walk.
And owing to this sogginess my bath night has been postponed pending the arrival of more clement conditions, something for which I am exceeding grateful; when I get wet and I am clean I merely smell strongly of Hound, but when I get wet and am in my current state of filth I smell like a Hound that has been lounging about in a swamp. Infinitely more pleasing I think. Anyway, while the rest of the world awaits the arrival of birds and flowers and baby animals and such, around here the signs of spring are a bit different:
Wimsey’s Signs of Spring
Elizabeth switches from her ugly and shapeless black down parka to her lighter weight ugly and shapeless blue down parka.
Maria stops wearing a hat and then complains about being cold.
Elizabeth switches from her mad hatter hat to a cat- in- the- hat one and offers to lend Maria a chapeau from her collection. Maria refuses.
Instead of risking life and limb on ice and snow my humans risk life and limb on slippery mud.
The indoor biomass index shows a noticeable increase as new vegetation becomes available for canine transport.
Instead of dislocating my humans’ shoulders chasing squirrels I dislocate my humans’ shoulders chasing baby squirrels.
Central Park snack shops re-open and with them the possibilities of entertaining park goers by dragging my humans thither and refusing to move until the requisite comestibles have been cadged.
Strange new colors appear in the drool splotches I fling on the walls.
Owing to moist ground conditions, roaching becomes an occasion for shrieking rather than chuckling, especially when I have a good shake afterwards.
Tourists return to the city en masse to face that eternal dilemma: “your ear drums or your water bottle” as my ear splitting vocal ultimata make normal conversation impossible.
Tourists return to the city en masse to tell my humans what a wonderful, beautiful amazing and well behaved dog I am (except when I am baying loudly at them for their water bottles) forcing my humans to grind their teeth and agree and risk Pinocchio like effects to their olfactory organs.
And of course as conditions change so does my wardrobe—fleeces and snowsuits give way to raincoats and cooling coats, all of which greatly enhances my conspicuous nature and ensures that I am always better
dressed than my humans. But there is always the risk that one’s look might also prove popular with other canines possessing a finely honed fashion sense. So you can imagine my dismay on Sunday when I encountered this little black pug wearing an identical fleece! But at least we weren’t on the red carpet or anything.And speaking of the red carpet, this Sunday is Oscar Night and as is my custom I have been reviewing the films and think that they could be better:
Wimsey’s Oscar Nominees
A sensitive woman searches the globe for a food that her giant (but extremely handsome) Hound will eat without getting sick. Ignoring her mother’s pleas to feed goulash, chicken paprikash and Hungarian pastries she finds that the only food that the Hound can eat is made from black swans on the Caspian Sea --$100/lb. (shipping not included). She descends into madness.
After a promising career as a dog trainer is destroyed by watching too many Cesar Millan videos and drinking too much gin, Elizabeth tries to redeem herself by training the pride of the Upper West Side, “Irish” (he’s got a lot of red hairs) Wimsey St. Hubert. Although his deportment in the ring is deplorable and his footwork abysmal he redeems himself through his vigilant efforts to rid the block of an unneutered pugilistic Gordon Setter called Wilbur. Elizabeth drinks more gin.
Dom Wimsey is an accomplished thief—having stolen everything from panties to the Sunday roast to his humans’ lives. He can also invade his humans’ subconscious, causing them to do things they would never otherwise consider, like spending hours walking around Central Park in the rain, wearing clothes more suited to a farm in Iowa, and buying boxes of desiccated bull penises. However he faces his greatest challenge yet when he needs to implant the idea that they should rent an RV and drive to Alaska so he can eat a salmon that has been promised to him by his friend Edie.
The Kids Are All Right
Wimsey, a social canine raised among adults discovers that small children are pushed about in strollers containing desirable and easily obtainable food items.
Two New Yorkers who don’t know how to pump gas, who get lost even with a GPS and who can barely drive a regular car find themselves inexplicably driven to rent an RV and drive non-stop to Alaska for 127 hours with a giant, smelly, gassy, drool flinging, rear window blocking, vehicle hogging Hound. In their despair they think about cutting off body parts but worry that eating them would upset the Hound’s stomach so instead they await rescue by someone with a really big salmon.
The Social Network
A woman who has no friends acquires a large gregarious Hound. She still has no friends but the Hound has an extensive social network. She considers suing the Hound to obtain the network but then realizes that the Hound always wins.
Toy Story 3
A sequel to Toy Story One and Toy Story Two in which we get to see the new swimming pool installed by the owner of the local pet shop in the home he purchased after a few toy buying expeditions by Wimsey. A related film, Vet Story, opens next month.
An adventure movie filled with pain, violence and vows of revenge, True Grit is the story of Wimsey’s human as she tries bravely to navigate the space from the bedroom to the bathroom barefoot in the dark and in the middle of the night. Recorded in Screamaphone Surround Sound.
A lively bone-loving Hound enjoys storing his extensive bone collection in cozy spots around he house where they can be tripped over, sat painfully upon or otherwise cause bodily harm. His humans seek psychiatric help to determine why they keep buying these bones for him and the psychiatrist concludes that the humans were toilet trained too early and also had unhealthy thoughts about their fathers . Then she meets the Hound and in an inspirational therapeutic breakthrough realizes that Freud was wrong and that it’s because the Hound is very cute.
The King’s Speech
The wife of the future king of England worries that because he stammers people might get the idea that people in the royal family are not all that bright, so she employs an unconventional speech teacher to help with the situation (at least the stammer part). The King is cured when the teacher introduces him to an aristocratic Hound, Lord Peter Wimsey who forces him
to make himself heard above the Hound’s loudly bayed demands to play with the future king’s fancy hat. It all ends happily when, although people still think the guy is not all that bright, at least they can understand him when he says silly things. And the Hound gets to eat the fancy hat.
I think my movies would have been more exciting and I could certainly liven up any red carpet (or blue carpet, or gray carpet or green carpet…).
And for those of you who are interested in such matters, the search continues for a kibble that won’t upset my stomach—my humans are now surrounded by partially eaten bags of so many types of food that their apartments are starting to resemble feed stores. They yearn for the rolling poop of a few weeks ago and I fear my intestines have been very disappointing is this regard. But I do get to drag them into the pet store with some regularity to select the next kibble candidate and to receive a piece of
freeze-dried meat from the nice lady who owns the store. It is a small store and the presence of a large, meat seeking Hound can be somewhat disturbing—especially to folks who come in to buy cat litter and such. I mean they look at me and say nice things and try to act nonchalant but really I know they are thinking : “he’s going to eat me and then finish off my cat for dessert.” I guess I hope they never get lost or anything—somehow I don’t think a cat would be too interested in finding them.
And also this week I finally remedied a serious omission in this winter’s Hound resume: whilst Elizabeth was preoccupied with getting me a requested drink of water, Maria noticed that she was standing on one of the few remaining patches of ice and helpfully grabbed my leash just as I unhelpfully tractored to connect with a passing female dog. This pulled Maria onto the ice where she slipped and got dragged along, collecting some really unhelpful ice in her underwear.
I can’t decide whether this was more or less fun than pulling Elizabeth into a hole full of snow. But now at least the winter season is complete and I can rest easy.Well I think that’s it for this week. Hope you all enjoy the Oscars!