Friday, June 1, 2012

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #263

Entry #263
June 1, 2012

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here, coming to you from Manhattan’s Upper West Side where we’ve had some serious summer weather and some completely non-serious Hound antics.  The hot, humid and Houndy weather pretty much put a kibosh on any Memorial Day activities, including my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth’s plan to try to barbecue without burning the backyard down (barbecuing not being amongst the skill set endemic to native New Yorkers).  It’s among the many things that sets this island city apart from the rest of the country (yes, I know, technically there are four other boroughs that make up New York City, but Manhattanites only acknowledge their existence when they need to get to an airport or have tickets for the US Open or have to drive through them to get to the Hamptons).
For example:

People in the rest of the country take their lives in their hands by driving on highways where drivers are texting. People in New York take their lives in their hands by getting into a yellow cab where drivers are texting, talking on the phone, watching movies and consulting the GPS all at the same time.

People in the rest of the country eat by cooking.  People in New York eat by picking up the phone and having someone deliver the cooking.

People in the rest of the country think some other color is the new black.  People in New York know that black is the new black.

People in the rest of the country think that people from other countries are foreigners.  People in New York think that people from other states are foreigners.

Women in the rest of the country think that good clothes are those that have lots of zeros in the price tag. Women from New York think that good clothes are those that have lots of zeros in the size tag.

People in the rest of the country ride bicycles that go somewhere and are accompanied by the sounds of nature. People in New York ride bicycles that go nowhere and are accompanied by the sounds of loud music and a screaming instructor.

People in the rest of the country ask new people in the neighborhood how they like living there. People in New York ask new people in the neighborhood how much they paid for their apartment.

People from the rest of the country have dogs that listen to them.  People from New York have dogs that listen to no one. They’re New Yorkers.

But in spite of my somewhat rustic appearance, I am the quintessential New York dog. I am loud, impatient, always in a hurry to get anywhere that I want to go and am very opinionated.  Moreover, I have a fashionable wardrobe, am a celebrity, stand out in a crowd, am entitled and do as little for myself as possible. Also, I am inclined to knock over or push aside people on the sidewalk who are moving too slowly for my purposes, the bane of all of us fast moving New Yorkers.  Some of us wish the mayor would outlaw slow moving pedestrians instead of large sized drinks —good things after all come in large packages, a fact of which my humans are reminded daily. Or not. 

Comments about my size are probably the number one thing that we all have to endure, as in "What a big dog!” Really? My humans hadn’t noticed, especially not when 130lbs of prime canine decides to park itself in their laps. Then there is the whole breed issue, like yesterday’s exchange:

Annoying Guy: Is that a St. Bernard?!

My human: (Says) No, he’s a bloodhound. (Thinks) He looks nothing like a St. Bernard!

Annoying Guy: He can’t be a bloodhound! He’s too big.
My human: (Says): You’re thinking of basset hounds, they’re small.  Bloodhounds are big. (Thinks): I think I know what breed my dog is.

Annoying Guy: But that’s the biggest bloodhound I’ve ever seen!

My human: (Says): Bloodhounds are big dogs.  (Thinks): Or he’s the only bloodhound you’ve ever seen considering that you just thought he was a St. Bernard.

Annoying Guy: He can’t be a bloodhound.  He’s too big!

My human: (Says): He’s a bloodhound. (Thinks): So moron, do you think I’m trying to con you into believing erroneously that my dog is a bloodhound and that if you keep insisting I’ll finally admit that I am lying???

Annoying Guy: But he’s so big! Bloodhounds aren’t that big.

My human: (Says): Good night. (Thinks): And people aren’t this stupid.  You’re right.  He’s a toy poodle.

This type of conversation goes on all the time which is probably the reason my humans like to shop in the liquor store. 

But of course the main reason that they need to shop in the liquor store is me.  Now as I mentioned, the weather this week has been quite summery, which means that I engaged in a number of summer antics and activities that make my humans seasonally crazy:

Summer Fun, Wimsey Style

1. Eat lots of succulent grass and plants which my humans then have to manually extract from my butt during my frequent eliminatory events.

2.  Get overheated—a condition that can be relieved only by lying the wide way across shady park paths so that no one else can get through (this is the outdoor corollary to the rule that beds are more comfortable when slept in the wide way).

3.  Attempt to frighten horses in an effort to get them to produce tasty, steaming snacks.

4.  Get overheated again and seek relief in The Stream, which owing to the low water levels in the summer is really The Mud Puddle.

5. Attempt to join people’s picnics.

6. Scour the locales where picnics are known to occur in order to   clean up stray bits of miscellaneous food items with exciting digestive consequences.

7.  Socialize with people eating at outdoor cafes.

8.  Get a sudden urge to produce a fragrant deposit (see #6) at the curb just opposite where people are eating at outdoor cafes.

9.  Roll in grass with the object of 1) removing heinous Gentle Leader if present and 2) acquiring novel, fresh olfactory elements to add to my usual stench.

10.  Jump in The Lake, thus acquiring a distinctive odor that my humans refer to as “The Swamp Thing” and follow it up by lying down soaking wet in the dirt in order to acquire a heat repelling crust.

Now on this later point, it should be noted that the fine for me jumping in The Lake is $250, which generally means that Elizabeth (who is usually holding my leash during these aquatic forays) is busy making up all kinds of fine-evading excuses should a Park Ranger suddenly appear.  Things like:

He’s bigger than I am—he dragged me in  (the “it’s his fault not mine” excuse)

He’s not really going in, he’s just having a drink  (the ”it’s not really happening” excuse)

He was so hot I thought he might get sick if he didn’t cool down   (the “it’s a medical emergency” excuse)

I didn’t know he wasn’t supposed to go in  (the “I can’t read signs” excuse)

I needed pictures for his blog (the “rules don’t apply to him, he’s a celebrity” excuse)

It will never happen again (the fantasy excuse)

But look how much he enjoys it! (The “he’s so cute” excuse)

I wonder which one would be most effective.  Probably none of them which would make jumping in The Lake another of my expensive hobbies along with visiting the vet. (BTW I’m not being pretentious, all the locations in Central Park are capitalized-- probably to distinguish them from lakes and streams in more ordinary and pedestrian locations).  Seeing how much I love The Lake, Elizabeth was researching pet pools for me to see if they come in my size but then Maria pointed out that if she buys me a nice,  (and no doubt expensive pet pool) I will probably just use it like a giant water dish and refuse to use it to cool off.  And then the ladies realized that they would have to empty it after each use (stagnant water in West Nile country here being prohibited) and that there was nowhere in the yard to do so without turning it into a giant mud hole (which I would probably enjoy much more than the pool).  But I think it would be fun to have a pool that I could ignore and make my humans crazy.

Well I think I will leave it here for this week.  Hope you all have some summer fun of your own—I know I will.  My humans not so much.

Until next time,

Wimsey, Hot Hound


1 comment:

Bentley said...

Wimsey, you look so happy in The Lake (almost forgot to capitalize!).

What sense does it make to have such a great place for hounds to get stinky and not be allowed in it?

Oh, and just this weekend, someone asked if I was a basset...oh well.