August 24, 2012
Hello Everyone, it’s me, Wimsey, coming to you from the waning days of summer here on Manhattan’s Upper West Side where the shorter, slightly cooler days have provided ample inducement for me to take lengthier and more than just slightly annoying walks. My human Maria and her friend Elizabeth both have ceased lamenting the hot, heady days of July when getting me out of the air conditioning required powers of persuasion wholly dependent on fistfuls of cookies. Days when I’d poke my head out of the door of my apartment building and assume the “Oh hell no!” attitude so beloved by humans foolish enough to live with bloodhounds.
Now my humans are all “those were the good old days” as I resume my desire to spent long, lazy afternoons in Central Park preventing Elizabeth (in whose company I spend my time when Maria is at work) from actually getting anything of a professional nature accomplished. Particularly those things that involve the computer and deadlines. And because it is still a tad too warm for my liking I exhibit a marked (or maniacal depending on your point of view) interest in visiting the pet shops of the Upper West Side to cool off and do a little olfactory shopping. It turns out that there is any excellent itinerary whereby I can visit 4 pet stores on the same walk.
Then there was my afternoon walk depicted in some of this week’s photos whereby I tried to visit an exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History Planetarium, tried to break into the 20th Precinct, met some old friends on the street—one of whom, the Broadway Jewelry Lady--likes to feed me copious quantities of snacks, then I demanded that Elizabeth buy me a refreshing cup of Grom Gelato (brought to me personally by the gelatoista as I am not actually permitted in the store) and finally ran into Pluto my young French bulldog buddy and announced the fact loudly and at length to the neighborhood at large.
So as you may surmise it has been an excellent week (at least for me) all around. Even the news contributed its share of entertainment this week with pictures of a naked and cavorting Prince Harry splashed about the Internet for the delectation of multitudes of females.
Now apart from violating U.S. law which clearly states that anything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, I have to say that I personally have always felt an affinity with this devil may care prince—he is like the bloodhound of the royal family—charming, not bad to look at and behaving himself admirably in places like the show ring. But then you turn your back for one second and wham—strip billiards, Nazi uniforms and the Sunday roast making an assisted exit out the kitchen door!
And the fact that it was strip billiards and not strip poker I think lends the incident a distinctly toney, more upscale air---like Colonel Mustard could have joined the fun at any moment. And something tells me that just as we bloodhounds conveniently lose our ability to understand the word “sit” when doing so is inconvenient, Prince Harry’s suffered a similar lapse in his billiard skills.
Sadly I understand that the prince is being given a time out in his crate-- royal families, like bloodhound owners, sometimes suffer from a surfeit in the hilarious antics department. Of course if he were a French prince instead of an English one his exploits would have been celebrated and most likely have caused an immediate run on billiard tables and tickets to Vegas.
But speaking of hilarious antics, what week would be complete without another visit to the vet to help him build his dream house. It appears that I have an infected lick granuloma on my left paw—a condition requiring a snazzy new antibiotic and (hilarity alert) my humans to apply warm, medicated compresses four times a day. Now it is very easy for a vet to look at a bloodhound and prescribe four foot compresses a day and equally easy for a bloodhound’s humans to look at a bloodhound and know that there is going to be a lot of gin in their future. Oh, did I mention that after the compresses there is a special ointment that needs to be applied?
I must admit that the first few compresses kind of devolved into an Xtrme Bloodhound Wrestling competition until I decided that a more fruitful approach was to demand the non-stop scratching of my favorite spots and repeated turkey feeding throughout the process. I kind of lie there like the Grand Hound Pasha being rubbed, and cooed at and fed and having all my wants attended to. I don’t know if my foot is getting any better but fortunately lick granulomas are easy enough to create should this one be so inconvenient as to heal prematurely.
And in addition to wayward Princes whose family clearly has no sense of humor, the news is also full of the new Mars gizmo Curiosity. I pretty much like everything about the gadget, but especially its name. I too am curious:
Things I am Curious About
I am curious about how many minutes I can play squeaky tennis ball soccer before Elizabeth yells, “I hate you” and calls Maria to come pick me up forthwith.
I am curious about how many pet shops I can drag my humans to in the course of a single walk.
I am curious about how many times I can visit these pet shops and sniff all the merchandise before they post a “No Wimsey” sign on the door.
I am curious about how many times my humans can grit their teeth without breaking them when someone tells them how well behaved I am.
I am curious about how many cups of Grom Gelato I can eat at one time.
I am curious about how many people I can wake up in the morning when I announce that I am now going out for my walk.
I am curious about how many pieces of miscellaneous organic material I can snatch on the street without my humans noticing until they have to deal with the gastric consequences.
I am curiously about how many small dogs and humans waiting at cross walks that I can terrorize by baying at the light to turn green.
I am curious about how much time and money my humans spend to de-drool their walls, furnishings, floors, clothes and hair.
I am curious about the annual cost of beverages wasted because people dump them so I can play with the bottle.
I am curious about why my humans squeal when I stick my tongue or my nose in their food.
I am curious about how many turkeys I consume in a week.
I am curious about why my humans think saying “No Wimsey” has any effect on my behavior despite years of evidence to the contrary.
Of course my humans are curious too—they would like to know things like how come I am obsessed with bathing in the Lake in Central Park for which there is a big fine but have no interest in bathing in any other lake for which there is no fine.
Anyway, I intend to keep a close watch on the stuff going on on Mars, principally because it is none of my business, which as a Hound makes it manifestly and completely my business. I find that the most satisfying experiences in life involve things that no one thinks are my business except me (other people’s food, the contents of their bags, the contents of their closets, the state of their underwear, etc.)
But speaking of business I received an intriguing offer in my inbox the other day from a company called Printcopia.com. Apparently you can send them a photo and they will make a canvas wall hanging from it (if you use the code BLOGLOVE2012 you get 50% off). Now as you can well imagine the state of the walls in Maria and Elizabeth’s apartments are a testament to my prodigious drool production. And as attractive as I find my abstract expressionist drool art homage to Jackson Pollock, it occurs to me that perhaps I should persuade the ladies to redecorate in Early Wimsey. My humans have many thousands of photographs of me (embarrassing but true)—certainly enough to completely cover their walls and ceilings in an assortment of canvases bearing likenesses of me! Can you imagine the beauty of such an interior design scheme? And then when the inevitable drool flinging occurs it will simple add a touch of realism to the tableau.
Well I think I will leave it there for this week. I have an urgent date with a squeaky tennis ball and Elizabeth has a date with a large glass of gin.
Until next time,
Wimsey, The Prince Among Hounds