May 11, 2012
Hello everyone, Wimsey here coming to you from the Upper West Side of Manhattan where chilly weather and cool Hounds abound. Now you will notice that this week the usual cornucopia of magnificent photos of me are a bit lacking and that most of the pictures are cityscapes as opposed to parkscapes (technically they are all Houndscapes but like any precious and stunning jewel I like the setting to reflect the quality of its star). Now this paucity of pictures occurred for a couple of reasons: first, during Sundays’ park perambulation, the traditional site of many of my weekly photos, someone, (naming no names but it was my human Maria’s friend Elizabeth), didn’t know where the low battery icon was on her new camera and poof, just like that, endless photo ops of me were lost. Reminds me of the perpetual lament of Elizabeth’s riding teacher—“how can someone so smart be so stupid” which is very much akin to my humans’ lament “how can a dog so stupid be so smart” and its corollary, “how can a dog so cute be so evil.” But it’s all in a day’s work for a bewitching Hound like myself.
Anyway, to add insult to photographic injury, my front leg is still a bit lame, which in addition to necessitating copious quantities of turkey-laden ascripton and tramadol, also mandated “short walks”—the short Wimsey walk being defined as those under and hour and only achieved with great struggle and determination on the part of my humans. Paradoxically, being a bit hobbly does not mean that I do not tow furiously in the direction of Central Park, which frequently necessitates the application of the Heinous Gentle Leader and a strong set of biceps. I also appear to have a renewed and relentless determination to play with passing dogs on my morning walk, probably because this too is now a forbidden activity. And of course my ability to separate mounds of turkey from hidden pills is legendary—nothing breaks the human spirit quite so much as the sight of me munching a substantial wad of turkey only to have a pill drop out of my mouth at the end of it. My humans are no doubt supporting an entire turkey farm upstate.
I digress-- it’s just that I can’t resist the opportunity to brag about my annoying injury time out antics which are separate, though nonetheless equal, from the non-injury time out variety. (Did I mention how I like to come flying off of Maria’s high bed onto the hard floor? Sadly this was deemed inimical to my recovery and I have been banned from the bedroom when unsupervised). Also satisfying is that my humans feel guilty about the invectives they would like to hurl at my head (along with assorted household objects) when I am in a less robust state of health. And then there is the endless wailing refrain “Why are you trying to do that Wimsey when your leg is injured?!” But I think the fact that there is a wailing refrain attached to my activities answers the question nicely.
Anyway, as everyone was so busy with the coddling and supervising of me and as Central Park was off limits for this week, the pictures are fewer in number and reflect my city street walks. Except those taken in Riverside Park which is across the street from Elizabeth’s apartment where its very proximity and convenience virtually assures that I don’t want to go there unless under duress. I much prefer the Cat Hospital which is also pretty close so we swung by there for a visit with our friend Dr. Julie Horton and I got to deeply inhale the delicious air that was redolent of cat. I keep hoping for a visit to the Squirrel Hospital but so far no luck.
But sadly my injury (or more accurately my flying bed re-injury) did not prevent the ladies from bathing me Saturday night. I mean what else is there to do on a Saturday night in New York City except bathe the dog?
But one whiff of me would have answered that question. Apparently I was so smelly that it was necessary to soap me up and wash me twice-- which although it meant double the amount of turkey I was fed while all this washing was taking place it, was annoying nonetheless. Consequently, I assumed an injured and haughty manner whilst partaking of my scrambled eggs and kibble dinner and whilst condescending to engage in a postprandial chew on a newly presented giant bully stick. Personally I think that washing me is just an excuse for the ladies to consume caipirinhas, the bath recovery cocktail of choice, and to pretend that they are in Rio or in some other place where I am not.
And of course my post bath clean up is best done while under the anesthetizing influence of a cocktail (or several). Although I talk about drool quite a bit, it is a little appreciated fact that drool, although nominally a liquid, is not soluble in water. This leads to strings of the stuff clogging up the hair trap and making a fine addition to the large fistfuls of hair that Elizabeth (who is the traditional Wimsey Bath Nigh hostess) has to clean out of the tub. Thus, I especially like it when passing humans, taking note of my size, stink and drool flinging prowess comment, “Well at least he has short hair and doesn’t shed.” Au contraire mon ami.
But I am happy to report that the double wash did nothing to impede the return of my natural fragrance which is once again fully perfuming the air of my humans’ abodes. The rapid return of the stink never fails to amaze my humans. So much effort for so little result. But then again this is the species that wants to mine asteroids.
Anyway, city walks mean city pet shops and I dragged Elizabeth around for a scenic tour of them all this week. This is me at Petland on West 72nd street where I obtained a few snacks whilst purchasing a squeaky hamburger to add to my burgeoning loud and obnoxious squeaky stuffed toy collection. Even Maria was impressed with the volume of the squeaky hamburger when I squeaked it in her face by way of a greeting. So were the people on the other end of Elizabeth’s telephone calls.
And in other news this week, Elizabeth finally ran out of stuff to buy herself on the Internet and was forced to go shopping at Mr. Chewy’s and buy me a fairly enormous box of assorted snacks (sales resistance not being her strong point) from their excellent selection of Wimsey Worthy treats. The first snack we are trying is called Nuzzles but they should probably be called Pokes, since that is what I do to the treat pouch when they are in residence. They are super crunchy which I like and which gives my humans more time to do whatever it is they are trying to distract me from when they gave me the treat in the first place. The Nuzzles box says they are for fussy pups—a big improvement over the ones that say they are for good dogs. I’d starve if that were the case. I think there should be more snacks advertised for bratty, disobedient and entitled Hounds like me:
Got a bad dog? We’ve got a good treat.
That pork chop he stole needs a dessert.
The treat to have when you are both having more than one.
Dog won’t sit? Give him our treat. He still won’t sit but at least it will distract him from whatever else he was about to do.
Our treat—a new way to indulge your dog when you are running out of ideas.
Need an incentive to vacuum? Our treats are guaranteed to produce drool-encrusted crumbs all over the carpet.
Don’t like snacking in bed? Too bad. Your dog does.
Hoping to keep your dog’s nose off your dinner plate? Feed him our treat instead (X-large box perfect for long dinner parties)!
Hound Dog Special: Buy two boxes of treats get one bottle of gin!
Anyway, since I’ve been laid up a bit I’ve had more time to read the newspapers which are always so informative. Like the bank that managed to lose $2 billion (oops) and the scientists who are using MRIs machines to find out what dogs think. Clearly these dogs are not Hounds since humans are never in doubt about what we think.
What Does My Hound Think When….
What does my Hound think when he looks at me: (Sucker. Got any food?)
What does my Hound think when he kisses me (Where’s the rest of that chicken parmesan sandwich).
What does my Hound think when he climbs into my lap (Heated pillow).
What does my Hound think when he chews up my new shoes (You can always tell fine Italian leather).
Does my Hound feel guilty when I yell at him for chewing up my new shoes (Nope).
What does my Hound think when he cuddles with me in bed (Move over. All the way over. Like on the floor over).
What does my Hound think when we watch TV (That remote looks tasty).
What does my Hound think when I leave him alone (While the cat’s away the Hound is going to eat the couch).
What does my Hound think when he smells another dog’s butt (Is he getting better food than I am?).
What does my Hound think when he watches The Dog Whisperer (Gee, how come there are no Hounds on that show?)
What does my Hound think when I say “drop it” (Pigs will fly).
What does my Hound think when I come home from work (Mine).
What does my Hound think when I eat dinner (Also mine).
What does my Hound think when he meets some one who is afraid of him (Wanna hear how loud I can bay?)
What does my Hound think when he flings drool on someone (Drool is the new black).
What does my Hound think when I reach for the Valium (Mission accomplished).
Well you get the idea. And as I’ve said I have exceptional communications skills and my humans are absolutely always know what I am thinking. They just don’t like what I am thinking. But that’s their problem. Most things are.
I will leave it there for this week—it’s time to engage in some snack sharing before my next walk. And here’s what I am thinking--can I make more of a mess eating yoghurt or popcorn?
Until next time,
Wimsey, The Thinker