Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #208

Entry #208

April 8, 2011

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here coming to you from the Upper West Side of Manhattan where it’s been running hot and cold, dry and wet and everything in between making for some unpredictable Hound towing conditions. But fortunately all the plants couldn’t care less about the weather and my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have been forced to exert maximum effort to prevent me

from tip toeing in the tulips and pooping in the daffodils—one of my very favorite springtime activities. And even though it is spring I managed to find a pile of snow to climb on—the skating rinks are still open and I had quite a bit of fun disporting myself on this snow bank adjacent to the Harlem Meer rink. I made sure that daffodils were not the only thing that were yellow.

But before I go any further I want to announce that there will be no post next Friday owing to a schedule conflict and the following week the post, if I can get around to doing one, might be early owing to the Friday arrival of our friends from Baying

Hound Aleworks who are visiting me for Easter. Needless to say their visit is causing much excitement around here, what with all the scraping of drool off the walls and general tidying up—my human wouldn’t want her friends to think that a giant, smelly, hair shedding, drool flinging Hound was in residence or anything would she?

But I am anticipating the enjoyment of tooling around town with my newly expanded entourage in tow (literally) and providing them with a practical demonstration of the concept that all

roads lead to Grom Gelato (except those that lead to the Loeb Boathouse café ((tuna fish sandwiches)), the conservatory water snack shop ((cookies)) the ball park café ((beer and bratwurst)), Le Pain Quotidien ((chicken on a baguette)) and a myriad of Upper West Side pet stores. I mean what else could Paschal visitors to New York possibly want to see? Apart from me, that is.

But the spring weather not only brings out Hound loving, water bottle donating tourists but this enterprising fellow,

so I thought I’d avail myself of his services. (It’s probably the only thing I have availed myself of recently that hasn’t cost my humans oodles of dosh). And considering how much money New Yorkers spend talking to therapists and not really getting to a point where they can to stop talking to therapists, I’d say this guy probably can’t do any worse and he’s certainly a better value.

For the record, neither of my humans has a therapist—a shameful admission amongst New Yorkers—because 1) they’re chronically short the $200/ 45 minute “hour” that therapists charge owing to my expensive tastes in veterinarians and gelato and 2) they have me to talk to instead. As a Freudian I of course don’t say much and I prefer to be the one lying on the couch during our sessions, but I believe under my therapeutic aegis the ladies have attained valuable and actionable self-knowledge.

To wit, although like most humans they are in general pretty useless, they can derive existential meaning and enlightenment by complaining less and taking care of me more. When they are angry, annoyed, stressed or depressed really the best thing they can do is leash me up and let me take them for a refreshing tow around the park. And at the very least they won’t be able to fixate on any negative emotions because they will be too busy trying to keep their arms in their sockets and my nose out of people’s posteriors. And

of course watching me pee endlessly on things is very cathartic and by the time they can drag me home they will have forgotten what was bothering them under the weight of stolen water bottles, admiring tourists taking my picture, the necessity of keeping me out of flower beds and people’s shopping bags, the engaging in detailed and technical discussions about my bodily functions, the necessity of drool flinging and dog pouncing prevention and the plethora of other joys that constitute a walk with me. A walk in the park it isn’t. At least not for them.

So you might wonder what it was that I had to say to the lawn chair therapist? (I mean apart from confessing my desire to to mount the female members of my family when I was a puppy and my propensity to be anal retentive in inclement weather when my humans wish for a quick result)? Well for one thing, I will never understand why just as I am getting going into the fourth hour of our walk; my humans want to go home. The fact that Elizabeth has sprained ligaments in her feet (I wonder who did that?) is no excuse. And Maria insists on using the bed at night when it is clearly disruptive to my nap and there is a perfectly comfortable living room rug for her to sleep on. Also, Elizabeth refuses to get rid of her current couch and buy the extra deep kind that my tush fits so much better on. I could go on, but I am hoping to run into the therapist again. Maybe he’ll have his earplugs this time.

Well what else is new around here? My humans are once again watching Dancing With the Stars and on this season they have the second generation rap artist, Lil Romeo, who is the son of the infamous, non-dancing, all walking, Master P. And this got me thinking that rap stars have such cool names that perhaps Hounds should also have some colorful aliases:

Wimsey’s Suggestions For Giving Your Hound a Cool Name

50 Scents

I 8 it

Hairz II food

Busta Couch

Master Pee

Liva 4 me

Drule flinga

Cheez lova

Bigg Tush E

Grandmaster Dash

‘N Sane

M’Ine

C Houndz Steal Ur Pantz

D Hound in D Garbage

Hound 8 D Bed

U Mad I Glad

M’ake Mi

Da Noze

Gaz 4 U

Lil Brain

Earz in Ur Face

Noze in Ur Tush

Poyn T Head

Phat Phlews

Odiferis

Masta of U

Y U Scream

P Here P Dere P Everywhere

Poop Doggy Dogg

CrayZ Breed

Mia Got Ur Dinna

Smell E

I Co$ta Lot

QT Gangsta

Hairz Everywherz

Shooz R Us

Ham Master Bay

Pulla U Ova

Muddi Pawz

Sha R K

Thwack Masta Hownd

D Bayz in D Hood

Vetz New Pool

Wim Z

And there are actually rappers called Bone Crusher, Bossman and Da Brat which all by themselves are excellent Hound sobriquets.

This has also been a busy week for me towing Elizabeth into pet stores where, after I’ve sniffed all the merchandise to within an inch of its life and the staff have fed me treats, she feels too guilty to leave without buying me something The latest guilt purchases have involved Merrick bones which, if you haven’t encountered them, are basically pieces of cow with bits of dried stuff attached about which it is best not to enquire too closely.

So now Elizabeth’s apartment looks like a cross between an abattoir and Temperance Brennan’s laboratory at the Jeffersonian. You can chew and crunch on these things (helpfully embedding bone fragments in the carpet) and take apart some of the pieces. All in all a very satisfying experience (at least for me). But this week I was thrown off stride by the latest purchase—a beef knuckle bone called The Tank (all the bones inexplicably have military names—I have a Lieutenant at home in Maria’s apartment—which my humans find a bit creepy). This Tank bone may actually in fact be a bone and it may smell like a bone but it is definitely not shaped like a bone. I mean even my rawhides and treats are shaped like bones. So I spent the day periodically studying it and sniffing it and pushing it to see if it would run away. And like any Hound trained in the scientific method I formed a few hypotheses about what this bone might be:

1. It is a surplus dinosaur bone that the pet store bought from the American Museum of Natural History.

2. It belonged to an alien that had an unfortunate accident on the Upper West Side,

3. It’s something my humans found in the park and thought it would be disgusting enough to appeal to me.

4. It’s one of those canine IQ tests that my humans periodically administer to me to reassure themselves that they are still smarter than I am.

5. It’s a new way to try to get me to take my heartworm medicine.

6. It’s a trap—as soon as I start chewing it I’ll end up in the bathtub.

Well finally Elizabeth became exasperated—there is nothing like buying someone a present that you think they are going to love and they ignore it and take a nap instead. So she brandished it in front of my nose and kept trying to explain that it’s a bone and as a dog I should naturally want to chew on the thing. Needless to say this aroused my suspicions even more. As a Hound it is imperative to look gift horses very carefully in the mouth. I mean all the good stuff is the stuff my humans try to prevent me from having so what’s up with this bone?

As it turns out my humans think that chewing on these bones helps remove tarter and stains from teeth, so I was correct in surmising that there was an ulterior motive. (My humans are big on canine dental hygiene—in addition to brushing my teeth they have also discussed whether it might be possible to floss them. Shudder). But anyway, I did finally explore the bone and take it apart and hone my technique for chewing on non-bone shaped bones much to Elizabeth’s satisfaction. Until she saw the huge mess I had made with it. Drool+ bone fragments= carpet cement. But as I always tell her, no pain (hers) no gain (mine).

So I will leave it there for now. I’ll hopefully be back with you the week after next. Until then I’ll be dreaming culinary dreams about the Easter Bunny and wish you the same.

WimZ, Masta of Da Bonz