November 16, 2012
Hello Everyone, Wimsey here coming to you from Manhattan’s Upper West Side where a holiday atmosphere is starting to prevail and I am reaping the benefits of the plethora of visitors that descend on the city to share it. My human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have to stand idly by as I am photographed and admired by the multitudes who routinely pronounce me to be spectacular. Confirmation of this spectacularity is seldom forthcoming from my humans, however, unless the word spectacular is paired with the word brat.
Wimsey’s Rules (much abridged edition) in effect this week:
If you want to go one way and I want to go another, we go my way or we don’t go any way.
If I demand a cookie and you produce the kinds that I am not in the mood for I will spit them all out until you produce the one that I want.
If I am lounging on the bed and it is time for my walk I will cease lounging on the bed only if a (large) piece of turkey is produced.
If there is only kibble in my lunchtime bowl of food I will follow you and stare at you and poke you until real food is added from the refrigerator.
If a new bag of kibble is being opened I will only eat the kibble from the new bag, not the old one.
If you are a tourist holding a hot dog care must be taken so that you suddenly don’t become a tourist not holding a hot dog.
If you want me to poop I will only do so in the deepest pile of leaves available and preferably one whose color matches that of my poop.
If you want me to poop at night I will only do so in a spot so dark that it requires the playing of blind man’s bluff to find it.
If you think that I will drink from a water bowl with drool in it you are sadly mistaken.
If you think that meeting Pluto, my French bulldog buddy, in the morning will not result in the entire neighborhood being woken up by prolonged, joyous baying you are also sadly mistaken.
If you think that I will allow my walking equipment to be removed upon entrance to Elizabeth’s apartment without first charging over to inventory my toy pile you are yet again sadly mistaken.
The degree to which I want to bay at, poke or fling drool on a human or canine is directly proportional to the degree to which they are terrified of me.
Replacing the keyboard return on your computer with my head is a fair exchange.
When I wish to hog the bed I will hog the bed and you can either accommodate that or go find somewhere else to sleep.
If you think you count, you don’t. Ask the tourists.
Not to admit to plagiarism or anything (what a Hound steal?) but many of my ideas are based on those expressed by Friedrich Nietzsche in Thus Spoke Zarathustra (a very tasty tome, by the way-- like every highly educated Hound I make it my business to read ((or eat)) up on 19th century German Romantic philosophers). Not the part about God being dead and the existence of the Superman (the Übermensch) for whom ordinary rules do not apply but rather my own version, Thus Spoke Wimsey (Also Sprach Wimsey in the original German) in which The Trainer is Dead (or otherwise rendered ineffective) leading to the emergence of the ÜberHund for whom any rules, ordinary or otherwise don’t apply. And although philosophers since Nietzsche have debated whether in fact any Supermen (at least those not named Clark Kent and wearing capes) have emerged my humans know definitively that that at least one ÜberHund stalks amongst them throwing his considerable weight around. But fortunately ÜberHunds are very cute.
Well I guess you can tell that I’ve had a good week. My humans not so much. But on Sunday we all got a special treat—our Facebook friends Jennifer and her sister Kelly visited New York City from Florida and of course it is practically mandatory that a visit with me be put on the “to do” list. So it was all, “Should we go to the American Museum of Natural History or should we visit Wimsey in Central Park?” It was no contest. I really should be listed in Fodor’s and on Trip Advisor.
Jennifer is owned by a lovely (although petite—a mere under a hundred pound slip of a Hound) bloodhound named Clementine and like any polite human who is visiting a Hound she brought me water bottles to play with. And as we all stood around talking (especially me) I was bombarded with the usual steady stream of photo requests from passersby. But then a bride—complete with white dress and trailing photographer-- asked if she could be photographed with me. And as us usual my humans’ faces turned the color of the dress and there was a chorus of “The dress! The dress!” reminiscent of Tattoo heralding the arrival of the plane to Mr. Roarke. But she said not to worry and so with my humans at the ready to pounce at the first sign of a head shake or a smear I posed like a champ. Of course I am a champ but generally not a very cooperative one.
Anyway, sadly there was no time for them to feed me Grom Gelato (another thing that should be on the “must do” list of visitors to NYC) but I intend to remedy this on their next visit. I gave them a rain (or drool) check.
Now I realized the other day that the fall TV season is almost finished and I have not yet weighed in with my usual set of improvements. So if you want to take a media break from generals who can’t keep it in their pants and their jealous ex-mistresses, here are some ideas for good viewing:
666 Park Avenue: 666 is the apocalyptic sign of The Beast and the address of a New York City building called The Hound. Through the machinations of the building’s mysterious owners, residents are tempted to enter into Faustian bargains to achieve their ambitions. But instead of selling their souls to the devil as they expected they realize the situation is much worse—they’ve sold their souls to a Hound.
Last Resort: Originally a ho hum political thriller about a submarine ordered to nuke Pakistan that flees to an exotic island instead (it being de rigeur that all TV islands are either exotic or mysterious or both) the concept was changed to the story of Hound owners driven to despair by the behavior of their Hounds who are finally forced to call in a $1,000 an hour TV dog trainer who promises to save the day. Viewers experience the joys of schadenfreude watching him fail.
Nashville: Country legend Rayna James’ music career is fading so she agrees to be the opening act for an up and coming singer and schemer Juliette Barnes (wait, isn’t this like the plot of All About Eve?). The she realizes that all she needs to do to revive her career is appear onstage with a large, musical Hound instead. At least the Hound doesn’t scheme. At least not much.
Elementary: Yet another take on the Sherlock Holmes story. In this version Sherlock is played by an actual bloodhound who each week solves such mysteries as what’s in the refrigerator, who didn’t change their underwear, can a large, heavy footed Hound catch a small, swift squirrel and what is the effect of flung drool on an Armani suit.
The Neighbors: The Weavers finally buy their dream home in a gated community only to find that it is populated by aliens. They are relieved since this is an improvement over their last gated community which was populated by Hounds.
Guys With Hounds (original title: Guys With Kids): Realizing that there are too many sappy parenting show Guys With Hounds gives the formula a new twist when instead of being strapped to politically correct babies the guys are attached to politically incorrect Hounds. The guys recapture their masculinity by watching the Hounds pee messily, play with their bits, fart, exhibit poor personal hygiene, wolf their food, get loud, adopt the direct approach with the ladies and do what they want when they want how they want. Sadly though, the Guys With Hounds become the Guys Without Women.
Revolution: Suddenly the world has no electricity. People can’t use computers, talk on their cell phones, watch TV, go to work, go on vacation or go the supermarket to buy food. They must get up when the sun comes up, hunt for food, stay close to home and live the way their ancestors did. No one knows what caused the electricity to go out. No one but the people with Hounds.
Arrow: Wealthy dick around town Oliver Queen is shipwrecked on a remote island (it’s probably exotic and mysterious too) and returns a changed man. He is determined to right the wrongs of the world by shooting arrows at people because using guns would be too easy. No one, not even the detective on his trail has figured out his secret identity because there is not a single bloodhound living in Starling City.
Beauty and the Beast: Catherine Chandler is a police officer who was saved from the villain who murdered her family by a doctor named Vincent Keller who is supposed to be dead but is really alive. For mysterious reasons (perhaps having to do with an island?) he lives apart from society. Apparently when he is angry he turns into a destructive beast unable to control his super human strength and heightened senses. Although he correctly judges that being turned into a bloodhound makes living among people a challenge Catherine thinks the long floppy ears, pendulous flews and excessive facial wrinkles are pretty darn cute.
Emily Owens, MD: A group of doctors act like high school students, which is preferable to the other way around. However, Emily Owens spends all kinds of time and money going to medical school only to find out that she’s still not popular which was the whole point of the exercise. She gets a large, stinky, loud, drool-flinging Hound so at least now she has an excuse for not being popular that has nothing to do with her actual personality.
The Mindy Project: Another doctor as high school student show wherein a doctor wonders why she can’t meet Mister Right. The answer is probably that shallow high school guys are not overly enthusiastic about any gal who don't look like a cheerleader so she gets an energetic bloodhound. Now she has a pile of new reasons why she still can’t meet Mister Right but she's in great shape.
Chicago Fire: A bunch of people who hate each other have to work together. They solve the problem by replacing the firehouse Dalmatian with a large, obnoxious Hound so now they all hate him.
Well you get the idea. Anyway, Thanksgiving will soon be upon us but it is impossible to imagine that I can eat any more turkey than I already do. This year Pluto is coming to stay with Elizabeth while his humans are out of town so I am looking forward to spending time with him; probably a lot more forward than folks in the neighborhood who have to listen to me spending time with him. I hope everyone has as much fun as I am planning to have and remembers that food that mysteriously vanishes from counters, plates and refrigerators has probably just gone to a remote, mysterious and exotic island and has absolutely nothing to do with your Hound.
Until next time,
Wimsey, Brat of the Week