Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #295

Entry #295

February 22, 2013

Hello Everyone, it’s me, Wimsey, coming to you from the Upper west Side of Manhattan where we have spent the week in the deep freeze which is not nearly as entertaining as spending a week in the deep freezer where there are at least tasty frozen meats to excavate.

 

But the cold did mean that my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth’s projected President’s Day Bath Fest was postponed.  Sadly though, the stench was so great that Elizabeth bravely threw me into the tub herself on Tuesday after a warm, and spectacularly muddy afternoon walk.  Apparently I was getting embarrassing to be around. Or make that more embarrassing to be around.  My humans are well accustomed to people seeing me be obnoxious and hearing me being obnoxious but when they can smell me being obnoxious (and not from the usual gastric eruptions either) it is apparently one obnoxity too many.  I guess apologizing to people for my stink in addition to apologizing to them for my drool and my baying is apologetic overload.

 

But fortunately (or not depending on one’s point of view) I am a strong smelling Hound and my pungent aroma returns fairly quickly.  Elizabeth was walking through her building’s lobby when the doorman pointed out that she was being seriously eyeballed by a Rhodesian Ridgeback who was waiting for the elevator, “Look how he’s staring at you! He can smell you!” the guy exclaimed.  It’s comments like these that have resulted in my next bath already being placed on my humans’ social calendar.

 

And speaking of Hounds (and when are we not) the following is a Shameless Plug for our friend Tom Shreck’s mystery novel, “On the Ropes” whose Kindle version is on sale for $0.99 (sadly I can’t shred the Kindle version like I tried to do with to the original).  The hero’s bravery is only exceeded by that of Tom himself who lives with both basset hounds and a bloodhound. (And without giving anything away, I would suggest that you keep your eye on the hero’s Basset Hound, Al. Some of the characters in the book wish they had too).  The book is the first of a series and if any of you entertainment people are reading this out there I think it would make a terrific movie or basis for a TV show.  (And my humans and I want to watch the casting call for Al the basset).

 

Anyway, movies are on my mind because Sunday is Oscar night and my humans will be all dolled up in Couture by Wimsey for our appearance on the Red Couch. (Honestly, Maria does really have a red couch—you just can’t see the color because it is always covered in drool and hair covered sheets; what she doesn’t know is that underneath the hair and drool covered sheets there is a hair and drool covered couch).  I have carefully viewed the nominated Best Pictures and as usual I feel that they could be substantially improved:

Wimsey’s Oscar Nominated Films

Amour: A controversial film about euthanasia wherein a lively Hound is threatened daily with the consequences of his activities.

 

Argo:  An exciting tale of CIA daring do: A CIA agent is tasked with smuggling 6 escaped American hostages out of the Canadian Embassy in Tehran and decides to pretend that they are part of a film crew.  Ignoring the fact that the plan sounds a lot like a TV episode of Mission Impossible, the exfiltration expert goes ahead.  Just to hedge their bets his bosses send in a team of Hounds to re-shred the pictures of embassy staff members that are being reassembled by the Iranians.  The Axis of Evil meets the Axis of Evil (Hound version). Thanks to the heroic efforts of the Hounds, the plan succeeds and the exfiltration expert moves on to study the plots of James Bond movies.

 

Beasts of the Southern Wild: Rather than a bizarre fantasy of ecology run amuck this is an unfortunately not so bizarre non-fantasy about a pack of Southern Hounds running amuck. Or just being Hounds.

Lincoln:  War! Partisan politics! Ethical Dilemmas! Complex presidential personal relationships! Sorry, that’s today’s NY Times.  Lincoln is a fine, historical film about one of America’s greatest presidents.

Silver Linings Playbook:  A Hound’s human keeps his sanity by repeating such phrases as “I hated that couch anyway,”  “Red meat is unhealthy,” “That dinner had too many calories,” ‘Pre-masticated food is easier to digest” “It will come out in the wash,” The walls needed repainting anyway,”  “My insurance covers visits to the Emergency Room,” “ I needed new shoes,” “Long walks in the icy cold are refreshing,” “Attachment to material possessions is unspiritual,” “I can change channels without the remote.” “I can read the newspapers online.” ‘I’m starting to like that smell,” “I look good in colors that are the same as my Hound’s hair” “It’s good to share,” “Sleeping on the floor is good for your back, ”The vet is a nice man, I like helping him do so well,” etc.….

Also, there were several nominees that I dealt with in my Christmas movie post, so here they are again in case you missed the:

Life of Pie: A very short film about a very large Hound and a very unattended dessert left on the counter to cool.

Les Misérables: The human version: a film about people with Hounds; the Hound version: a film about people without Hounds.

Zero Dark Thirty: The bank balance, the financial outlook and the number of times per minute that a Navy SEAL with a Hound tells the dog to get his nose off the counter.  Also Bin Laden gets shot.

Django Uncrated: When his humans forget to put their Hound Django in his crate they return home to find that their house now has an open floor plan, new ventilation to the outdoors and very little else.

And the envelope goes to…. no one if a Hound was in proximity of the envelope.

Also this week I decided to pay a Sunday visit to a local farmer’s market on Columbus Avenue and this stand caught my eye. Unfortunately the sign was somewhat misleading, as there were no actual ducks available for me to get to know better.  But it turns out that this nice lady has a line of freeze dried duck hearts for dogs of which I was able to partake. My humans have promised to buy me a bag next week but I also have my eye on some tasty looking sausages as well. 

 

And now in honor of the Oscars a little star photo montage: this week you may have noticed that sometimes there are not a lot of photographs.  This frequently occurs because Elizabeth (my personal photographer) runs out of time and patience.  For every photograph you see there are many more like this:

I see you have the camera out again. However there seems to be something very interesting off to the left over there.

Or perhaps it was off to the right.

Did I hear the zipper on the treat pouch?

Brandishing turkey will earn you a lovely shot of my tongue.

And this is the picture that will ultimately appear.

Usually I can get her to give up and put the camera away whereupon I look at her with a variety of appealing expressions that she will never be able to capture.

Now as many of you know I am a great art lover and am also the curator of The Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art (www.wimseyhoundart.blogspot.com). And in honor of Anthony Van Dyke’s birthday I have reproduced a painting from the Institute’s collection along with my curatorial comments:

 

Charles I At the Hunt (Anthony Van Dyck, 1635 Musee du Louvre Anthony Van Dyck the great Flemish painter became court painter to Charles I and painted forty portraits of him. Now although this is a very imposing painting it is not an official royal portrait. In it Van Dyck depicts the easy elegance of a gracious gentleman at the hunt. The genius of Van Dyck as a portraitist is that in spite of the casual pose of the sovereign the painter manages to portray him as commanding and regal nonetheless. From his shimmering doublet to his elegant boots and haughty expression, he is clearly the man in charge. But however beautiful, this painting has always seemed to me to be missing something. Shouldn’t the haughty and commanding Charles I be accompanied on the hunt by an equally haughty and commanding Hound? See how much the addition of a magnificent Hound adds to the meaning and beauty of the painting! Both gaze majestically out at their realm secure in the knowledge that their every wish is a their subject’s command—such a sense of ease, elegance and entitlement in both man and Hound. Charles I and Wimsey at the Hunt.

Well I think I will leave it there for this week.  Before I leave, however, a special shout out to California Bloodhound Credo for his spectacular initiative in opening a kitchen baby gate to help himself to his humans’ dinner. And also for his magnificent sang froid when confronted by his human with a chicken breast in his mouth for looking her straight in the eye and swallowing it. Bravo.

Until next time,

Wimsey, ready for his close up (not)

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #294

 

Entry #294

February 15, 2013

Hello everyone, Wimsey here, coming to you from the Upper West Side of Manhattan where the Ides of February have ushered in a schizophrenic mix of winter and spring resulting in an intoxicating concatenation of ice and mud. And whilst my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth appreciate that ice and mud are better than being stabbed in the back by Brutus, it still makes for some perilous and messy conditions in which to walk a large mud and ice loving Hound such as myself. 

 

Well it has been a busy week around here and it all started with blizzard alerts and exciting Weather Channel prophesies of snow-laden mayhem but it ended rather sedately in New York with about six inches of snow. Harrumph. Barely a dusting in my opinion.  But I was able to get out in some fresh powder on Friday night which was very pleasing in spite of being forced to wear the heinous gentle leader lest my enthusiasm result in some grievous bodily harm to my humans.

 

And then on Saturday we had a request from incoming Westminster Bloodhound Team Credo (Credo won the breed here last year at Westminster) for a Sunday park rendezvous to which I happily assented.  I always feel naked without an entourage.  Credo was sadly absent as I am pretty sure that rolling around in the dirt and snow and getting slimed by me was not considered part of a useful pre-show spa regimen (not to mention the stench that my urgent need of a bath would impart to this pristine Hound).

 

Anyway it was nip and tuck that Credo even got here at all from California as the airlines had stopped flying animals because of delays caused by the storm.  Fortunately his service vest enabled his humans to negotiate a spot for him in the cabin where he spent the trip peacefully napping and turning the airline’s slogan from More Leg Room in Coach to No Leg Room in Coach. 

 

My humans of course blanched at the thought of what I would do on an airliner--- a large assortment of humans incapable of fleeing from my probing, cold nose, a variety of bags and luggage items requiring a thorough olfactory investigation, food that could be cadged, filched or otherwise acquired, the drool and the flinging thereof that would be engendered by the cadged, filched or otherwise acquired food. Add to this the fact that when I get bored I bay. It’s a five-hour flight and I seldom do anything for five hours straight except release noxious gas that my humans are pretty sure the plane’s ventilation system was not designed to handle.  And we will say nothing of my propensity to sit up front and closely supervise the driving of any vehicle in which I am a passenger and my humans are unsure of the degree to which a large, smelly co-pilot would be welcome in the cockpit.

 

Anyway, we met Michael and Kim and their friend Marti (she runs the Ruff House Pet Resort in Riverside California and is a real comedian—she kept asking me to sit) at the entrance to Central Park. There is never a need for my humans to describe themselves to people they’ve never met before as it’s pretty obvious who we all are-- another of the many advantages that is conferred by my conspicuous presence. Since my visitors hailed from California and were unused to walking in the snow I naturally took them to the snowiest and iciest part of the park—the Ramble.   

 

Elizabeth (who always has my leash when we are together) was too proud to summon the assistance of the heinous gentle leader and as a consequence there were several exciting episodes of squealing and several occasions on which Maria, who was watching from behind, was certain that she was going down. 

 

And as usual my red snow suit was much admired although some of Michael and Kim’s friends were horrified; some dark pictures of me were posted on Facebook and their friends thought that Credo had been stuffed into a coat.  My humans explained that dogs in New York, no matter how rugged or naturally weather proofed  (Maria even claims to have seen a Siberian Husky in a coat) wear some combination of coats, sweaters and boots (sometimes all three!) in the winter and that failure to adequately clothe your animal results in people yelling and making nasty comments on the street.  My humans caved but then discovered that it is much easier to clean a coat than it is to clean me and so I now have a pretty extensive wardrobe of winter wear.

 

Anyway, we all had a fine time—the great thing about meeting other bloodhounded humans is that there is no need to apologize for the drool, the stink, the baying or the behavior.  The idea that your bloodhound is uniquely badly behaved never survives a conversation with another bloodhound’s human. Without going into detail, as of now Kim wins the prize for Worst Bloodhound Behavior in the Show Ring (it wasn’t Credo, but his brother Clancy) and this includes topping my rearing up and taking off with a famous professional handler, sliming a judge, baying during the national anthem, baying in the ring, refusing to keep my feet in the position in which they were placed, galloping around the ring at speed, gaiting with my nose pressed to the ground, standing backwards so I could face the comely lady bloodhound behind me and so much more. But I guarantee that one day Kim will be talking to someone else and will be forced to relinquish the prize. We bloodhounds are always improving.

 

Then on Monday my humans met up with Pluto my Frenchie buddy’s humans, at Westminster’s French Bulldog ring.  Here is a lovely specimen and all the humans were happy to see that even show Frenchies have that casually dilatory approach to getting from Point A to Point B that turns a short walk into a lengthy one and involves a quantity of pleading for celerity. 

 

And this is our friend Garth being examined by the judge—notice how attentively he is looking at his human Karen and how his feet are exactly where she placed them. He was Select and my humans think he is a beautiful dog.  I think he is far too obedient and gives the rest of us a bad name.

 

And this is Credo being interviewed on camera.  He was Best of Opposite this year and quite a handsome fellow, especially when he is standing on his human.

But I wasn’t shut out of Westminster entirely.  Maria felt guilty about leaving me to go watch the show so she came home with a stuffed grizzly bear and a bag of salmon treats.  And that night Elizabeth came over for Dean’s pizza (my favorite!) and we all sat on the couch, ate pizza and watched Westminster on TV.  I was happy to hear that announcer David Frei’s dog also views children’s strollers as mobile snack shops but somehow I think that their invasion by a 35lb Brittany lacks the impact of invasion by a 130lb Hound. My humans are always forced to explain to terrified mothers that bloodhounds are used to find lost children not to eat them.  The contents of their strollers, however, is another matter entirely.  

And then on Wednesday I got to spend the night with Elizabeth which is always a tremendous amount of fun. At least for me. The evening got off to a fine start with my nose in the toilet bowl and then on her chicken, in that order and went uphill from there.  I enjoy waiting until she is in a deep sleep, then climbing into bed with her, rearranging myself every time she falls back asleep and then concluding that she takes up too much room and leaving.  After that I am sound asleep in seconds. She not so much.

 

And here I am with New York’s Bravest (I stop and frisk them at every opportunity). I love firemen and fire trucks and tried to climb into this one (no photos of my attempted ascent for obvious reasons).  

 

 My ladies also like firemen-- but I suspect for entirely different reasons-- and my humans always seem quite pleased when I introduce them to these strapping fellows. Perhaps if I painted myself with a few black spots I would have more success scoring a ride along—after all I have been mistaken for a plethora of other breeds (including a Boykin which is a small brown spaniel (!) and most commonly for a mastiff, which apart from being large and drooly I don’t resemble in the least) so why not a Dalmatian?   

 

On Wednesday I stopped to sniff a fragrant human and she asked if I could tell everything that was in her blood.  Elizabeth explained that I was more interested in everything that was in her pockets and that that was not why I was called a bloodhound. But I must admit the thought has intriguing possibilities:

Wimsey: Physician’s Assistant

Doctor:  This is my assistant Wimsey. Take off your clothes and let him sniff them.

Patient:  OK, but does the exam include my dry cleaning bill.  He seems to be drooling quite a bit.

Doctor: Dry cleaning isn’t covered by insurance. You need to improve your diet—he only drools like that when he smells fast food.  Also you need more fiber.

Patient: How can he tell?

Doctor: You don’t want to know. Also you are not getting enough exercise.

Patient: This is amazing! This physical is even better than going to a psychic! How does he know?

Doctor:  Your clothes aren’t sweaty enough—he likes to lick the salt.  And he’s showing minimal interest in chewing your shoes which means that they don’t have enough scent on them. Now let him sniff you.

Patient: Yikes! His nose is cold.

Doctor: That was your neurological exam. Your reflexes are excellent. 

Patient: Stop him! He’s chewing up my wallet!

Doctor: Excellent visual acuity.  Now can you read the denominations of the bills he is shredding?

Patient: Yes, he’s got a mouthful of twenties.

Doctor: Good but your blood pressure is too high. Your face is very red.

Patient: What’s that terrible, loud noise? 

Doctor: That was your hearing test.  He bays like that when he’s bored.  Do you have any credit cards? He likes to chew on those. You exhibit the normal hands over the ears response by the way so your hearing is fine. Now for your prostate exam.

Patient: No!

Doctor: Don’t be silly I do that. Wimsey isn’t qualified—he’s only a physician’s assistant.

Patient: So am I healthy?

Doctor: Yes, but I have one more question: Would you consider getting a dog like Wimsey?

Patient: Well he is very cute…so yes.

Doctor: Here is your psych referral.

 

Well you get the idea.  Anyway, we have some snow in the forecast again and I am hopeful that I will succeed this time in pulling one of my humans over—I mean isn’t that the whole point of the stuff? And I hope I continue to get visitors-- people with regular dogs brag about how good their dogs are, people with Hounds brag about how bad they are.  No matter where they come from or what language they speak, Hound people invariably have a sense of humor? They have to.

Until next time,

Westmonster Wimsey

And have a Happy President's Day!

 

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #293

 

Entry #293

February 8, 2013

Hello Everyone, it’s me, Wimsey, coming to you from the finally snowy precincts of New York’s Upper West Side where there is a lot of excitement around here-- and not just because they dug up Richard III in a parking lot.  A blizzard is due to hit this evening and forecasters can’t tell if we are to get three inches or 30 inches which is somewhat disconcerting as my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth don’t know how much of Fairway they are willing to brave in order to prepare. For the uninitiated Fairway is the local gourmet store that morphed into a pseudo supermarket except minus the space for all the customers that it attracts. A visit to Fairway not only involves long waits at the deli counter to pick up my low salt turkey but also run ins with a panoply of shopping crazed, frenetic New Yorkers mowing down everything in their paths with shopping carts and strollers (New Yorkers parents in a hurry not being adverse to pressing their progeny into service as offensive weapons).

 

But I have plenty of food and water which, as we know, is all that counts and my humans have crampons for their boots which is all that counts for them if they plan on staying vertical at the end of my leash.  And this storm even has a name (sadly not Wimsey)—Nemo.  Nemo is Latin for no one as in: “no one at the end of Wimsey’s leash is safe in the snow” and “no one knows whether Wimsey is looking for a place to poop or is just endlessly enjoying all the scent trapped in the snow” and “no one can get Wimsey to come in from the snow when Wimsey wants to stay out in the snow ” and so forth.

 

But I always hold out hope that the snow will cause some condition requiring me to spend the night at Elizabeth’s, this being one of the great joys of my life and one of the great banes of hers.  I stayed over last Friday whilst Maria was out with friends and I subsequently declined to be moved home at the appropriate juncture. So out came Elizabeth’s sleeping pills, her eyeshade and her ear plugs (she hasn’t figured out a way to deal with the smell yet) and in came Elizabeth’s hands and her feet lest I decide to nibble them in the night.  And then at 7am promptly I deposited my folds, wrinkles and drooly flews onto her face and snorted and inhaled loudly lest the drool and the wrinkles fail to wake her. And when the shrieking stopped and her heart rate returned to normal we went out for a nice walk. But not before I climbed into her bed causing it to smell while she got ready and then refused to get out of it.

 

And I have decided that since Elizabeth so clearly enjoys taking care of me that she is the only one permitted to cater to my grooming and veterinary needs—I simply will not permit Maria to do anything to me in the ear cleaning, ear medicating, eye medicating, tooth brushing, or warm compressing (especially of the pimple on my snout) department.  (But any veterinary suggestion that involves the words “ear flushing” is off limits to everyone).  I love getting up on my couch when Elizabeth comes to pick me up and having her minister to my needs.  So I have one human who has to take care of me when she doesn’t want to and another human who wants to take care of me whom I don’t permit to do so.  It’s what’s known in bloodhound circles as a win win.

 

In other news it’s been an excellent week in the present department—Elizabeth went to have dinner with friends on Sunday and came home with two new toys for me.  So now my toy pile is augmented by a red rubber bulb and a very large green stuffed bone.  And on Wednesday I instituted a mandatory shopping expedition to Unleashed where I was fed some canine biscotti that proved so much to my liking that Elizabeth bought a pound of them.  Truth be told she feels guilty about getting dragged in there all the time not to buy anything but because I like to sniff the big bags of kibble.  (She can’t buy the big bags of kibble because although I like to sniff them I don’t like to eat them).

Now as discussed last week, from time to time companies contact me and offer to send me merchandise to review.  A lot of the time I am forced to decline because the company really hasn’t taken a good look at the blog and doesn’t realize that I don’t, for instance, wear jewelry (at least not voluntarily).  Anyway, I agreed to review this collar http://www.dogbarkcollar.com/toughhound that contains its own identity tag (can there really be too many things in life that say “Wimsey” on them?) and I have been wearing it for two weeks. 

 

The first thing that I liked about this collar was that it was soft and pliable—this makes for a comfortable wearing experience unlike some collars which are very stiff.  My humans do not wish to subject me to any collar that might chafe or irritate the sensitive and delicate Wimsey neck.  Nevertheless it is still sturdy enough so that they can get a good grip on it when I see something alluring, like say a raccoon or a pile of horse manure, that I believe requires my immediate attention. It is made out of a synthetic but it actually looks like a lot like leather which my humans also like.  There is nothing cheap about me so a cheap looking collar would be anathema to them.  The inside of me is so expensive that it’s a pity I can’t wear my anal glands and ear canals.  (The collar is $29.95 which would buy me about a tenth of a vet visit, a tenth of a tube of a fancy ointment or a pill).

 

All good so far and of course the imbedded name tag, which can be ordered in a variety of fonts, is clear and easy to read and won’t get pulled off when I roll around on the ground wrestling midget dogs because as an inveterate lap dog myself I am in denial about my size (my humans wish they could also be in denial about my size too but the bruises don’t let them). And although it has only been two weeks the collar so far has been impervious to the effects of mud and drool and not for the want of exposure to both.

 

So all in all this seems to be a very good every day collar—not so expensive that if someone (mentioning no names) happened to chew it up it would be cause for squealing and castigation nor so cheap that it is an embarrassment to been seen in on the Upper West Side   However, there are two aspects of the collar that are a matter of taste—the buckle and the colors.  My regular collar goes on and off with a handy clip—this is extremely convenient when one is chasing around a dog that is perhaps refusing to go out in the pouring rain and would rather explode instead or when one is trying to undress an animal that feels the immediate and urgent need to inventory its toy pile or to ingest a spot of lunch. Also sometimes when my humans are in the process of fastening a regular collar something else commands my attention and I wander away before they have a chance to finish.

 

As for the colors, although it comes in brown and black my humans and I find the rest of the colors a little neon-y for our taste. (This from a Hound that wears a chartreuse fleece I know, but it was the only color on offer at the time). Now I realize that as a big city dog who is always on his leash and for whom being out of human sight for a second is unacceptable because it means I am absolutely up to no good, I have a different view of vivid collars.  It is kind of impossible to lose me in Manhattan (although my humans sometimes wish they could) and as I am a rather conspicuous beast to begin with a vivid collar is not especially functional (did I mention that when we cross streets in the dark my humans place themselves between myself and any potential traffic because they would much rather that a car hit them instead of me? I of course concur. Although an injured human would be very inconvenient). So I would prefer that this collar also come in some nice jewel toned colors are well.  Here in NYC we do fashion not function.

 

And finally, as I previously mentioned there has been much excitement over the digging up of Richard III from a parking lot.  This has reignited the controversy of whether Richard was a criminally power mad monarch or just a normal King of England-- I mean even the best of of these guys was hardly likely to win a Rotarian of the Year award.  And the War of the Roses has been reignited around here too with Maria tending toward the Yorkist view and Elizabeth tending toward the Lancastrian.

 

As you know, we Hounds have a short attention span so rather than reading a lot of thick books with too many words, here is the Hound version of events: King Edward III had a bunch of kids who, contrary to the custom of the time, did not die en masse before being old enough to spawn which meant that in very short order Edward had quite a number of ambitious and ruthless descendants who all felt that they could do a better job than whomever’s bottom was currently occupying the throne. Some were descended from or allied with a Duke of York (the white rose gang) and some were descended from or allied with a Duke of Lancaster (the red rose gang), hence decades of strife and agro known as The War of the Roses.

Ways in Which I am Like King Richard III

Richard was born with a deformed spine

I was born with no brain

In spite of being born with a deformed spine Richard was able to lead his men in battle.

In spite of being born with no brain I am able to outsmart my humans

Richard ruthlessly shoved aside his two nephews so he could occupy the throne

I ruthlessly shove aside my two humans so I can occupy the couch

People accuse Richard of making away with his two nephews

People accuse me of making away with their lunch

 

People accuse Richard of poisoning his wife

People accuse me of poisoning the air

Richard offered his kingdom for a horse

I offer my kingdom for what comes out of a horse

Richard dispensed titles to those he favored

I dispense drool to those I favor

We are both addressed informally as “Sir”

We both hold court

We are both followed at all times by loyal attendants

We both frighten people with our power

We are both disinclined to take no for an answer

We both have strong ties to Westminster

And speaking of Westminster, the show is this Monday and Tuesday—my humans will be in attendance at its new venue—the Piers at 57^th street.  They are meeting Pluto’s human there to watch handlers attempt to show 46 French Bulldogs which, although probably easier than showing 46 bloodhounds, they are wondering by how much.  Good luck to all the Hounds who manage to brave the blizzard and make it to the show and as is her annual custom, Elizabeth will be watching, grateful that it is not both of us in the ring again.  Apparently I did not behave very well.

Well I think I will leave it there for this week. I have just been out in the snow (2 inches fresh powder so far!) and need to dry myself off on Maria.

Until next time,

 

Wimsey III