Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #310

 

Entry  #310

June 28, 2013

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here, coming to you from Manhattan’s Upper West Side which has inexplicably turned into a tropical island.  Instead of Tattoo yelling “Da plane, da plane,” there is me yelling “da sun, da sun.”  I detest the sun and when it beats down on me the only thing I can think of is to get out of it and back into a civilized air-conditioned apartment.  Needless to say, the tropical weather has been inimical to me eliminating anything except my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth’s sanity as they plead with me to take care of business. Some business…a little business…ANYTHING and any production thereof is met with cries of elation not usually associated with the activity.  

Generally I am at my worst during my afternoon walk with Elizabeth when, if I am not trying to drag her in the straightest line between my apartment and hers, I am trying to make illicit forays into air conditioned shops and restaurants and into people’s cars. Of course by the time Maria gets home from work and it’s time for all of us to go out together, the dreaded sun has lost its power and I am ready to spend the entire evening tooling around Central Park.  The fact that they get to eat their respective dinners at 10pm is no concern of mine.  If my humans were to go to Fantasy Island I’m sure their fantasy would be that I cared about them instead of caring about me.  Good thing that the island is fictitious. Not surprisingly, I’ve been hearing the words  “wretched Hound” tossed around quite a bit this week.

Although I despise the hot weather, it is some consolation to me that it makes my humans miserable too.  While the rest of the world is wearing elegant summer attire, my humans must adhere to:

 

Wimsey’s Guide to Summer Fashion

Shoes: Forget about those lovely Jimmy Choo sandals and those Louboutin heels, Hound walking requires footwear that is comfortable for the many, many hours you will be outside with Your Hound. Think Nike (Your Hound will “just do it” if he wants to and nothing that you can do will stop him), New Balance (good luck with any balance) and Adidas (Impossible is Nothing ((to Your Hound).) And these shoes must have traction for negotiating the area around the mud puddles and other assorted filthy bodies of water that Your Hound will want to drag you into to cool himself off. So the more of those tready things that you have on the bottom of the shoes the better, which means the bigger and clunkier the shoes the better. And for those tropical summer storms, nothing says a long outing with a waterproof Hound like hot rubber boots.

 

Pants:  Yes, some nice, hot pants (and not in a sexy way either) for summer.  Wearing shorts means that your legs will get all scratched up in the thorny bushes and other aggressive vegetation that Your Hound will wish to explore—he’s protected by his dense coat, thick skin and imperviousness to any amount of pain in the pursuit of something enjoyable to him.  Additionally your legs will acquire a coating of mud, drool, Hound hair and whatever else Your Hound chooses to smear on them.  Skirts are even worse, because in addition to the above-mentioned issues you will likely be flashing the neighborhood when you bend over to scoop up the prodigious deposits that Your Hound creates.  It is also possible that your Hound will wish to take advantage of the enhanced access that a skirt provides to use his cold, wet nose to conduct assorted investigative operations.  Oh, and the pants must be of a loose and unflattering variety so as to enable bending and stooping when you provide Your Hound with refreshing drinks of water from the portable bowl hooked to them and to obviate the risk of them splitting when you end up being pulled over and dragged because Your Hound spotted a raccoon.

 

Tops: Tops must provide Full Coverage or else you risk sharing your bounty with the world every time you bend over to minister to Your Hound’s needs (or are pulled over while the Hound ministers to his own needs-- like getting to know the neighbor’s cat better).  Also exposure will increase the likelihood of Hound Hair in the Cleavage which will cause you want to scratch and jiggle in a way that may attract an unusual degree of attention from the public at large.

Makeup: The only thing on your face (other than Hound hair) should be a generous layer of sunscreen which will leach into your eyes and cause them to sting.  And which will turn your eyebrows white as you sweat profusely trying to keep up with Your Hound or when he decides to take a cement lawn ornament siesta in a spot where he is in the shade and you are in the sun.

Hair: Regardless of what you do to your hair it will end up plastered to your face and neck and decorated with viscous globs of high production summer Hound spit.

It’s really no wonder that my humans are single—although Elizabeth did break the rules this week and wear a skirt which caused people to stare at her as she walked down the street muttering to herself to remember to bend her knees.  And the aesthetic qualities of the skirt were severely compromised by the sneakers that she was wearing on her feet. But the Wimsey Fashion Prize of the week goes to my human Maria who chooses to deal with summer squalls by wearing a huge, olive green men’s LL Bean raincoat that falls to her calves and makes her look like she works in an abattoir.

Anyway, I can hardly believe that July 4^th is next Thursday!  There is again talk of a major clear-out of the backyard and the grilling of tasty things that I will end up eating because there is nothing that says sharing like a Hound raining drool on one’s lap.  Of course given the tropical nature of the weather we will probably end up sitting in the AC eating Dean’s pizza.  But I digress.  Today is the birthday of Henry VIII and as those of you who read this blog know, Elizabeth is obsessed with Tudor history, which means that Maria and I have to listen to her yack about it during our long walks. So it occurred to me that Henry VIII and I have a lot in common:

If Henry VIII Were A Hound

Wife 1: I want this wife! It was my brother’s.  I’m stealing it.

I’m tired of Wife 1.  I’ve played with it long enough; it’s chewed up and smelly. And I’m bored with it. I’m putting it in my obsolete toy pile.

Wife 2:  A brand new wife! But I’m not supposed to have it.  So I must have it! I’m gonna execute a bunch of people and have it anyway! I’ll never let it go. Mine!

This wife was a mistake. She didn’t perform as promised.  I hate that. I want a new one! I’m throwing this one out. For good.

Wife 3: This wife wasn’t durable. Too bad, I rather liked it. Or maybe it’s because I didn’t have a chance to get tired of it. I hate when something gets taken away from me before I’m ready to part with it. I’m sulking big time.

 

Wife 4: OMG! Never accept wives that you’ve never seen! It looks nothing like the picture in the catalogue.  I’m not even going to play with it.  It’s going straight to the obsolete toy pile!

Wife 5: This wife was so much fun!  It was the total package. Everyone was jealous of me which is very gratifying. It would have been the best wife ever except I didn’t want to share it and somehow it got shared.  It’s joining wife 2.

Wife 6: OK, I’m too mature to be chasing loud, squeaky flashy wives.  This is a nice comforting wife.  It’s a keeper.

I think autocratic Kings of England have a lot in common with autocratic contemporary Hounds.  Happy Birthday Hank!

 

So in other news, as some of you know, from time to time I am offered free merchandise to review. (Last week it was Orijen’s freeze dried Tundra snacks with which I am so obsessed that Elizabeth now wishes that the bag had never darkened her door).  But this week a really hilarious assignment came in—the folks in question want my humans to write a sponsored blog post on “frugal tips for dogs.” This is like asking Kim Kardashian to write a blog post about the sanctity of marriage.  The first image that came into my head is a raincoat comprised of a Hefty bag with a hole cut out and a length of rope.  But let’s see—maybe my humans could offer such tips as:

The dog does not need a raincoat, let alone three of them

The dog does not need a winter coat, let alone three of them

The dog does not need a fancy collar inlaid with silver and turquoise from Santa Fe

 

The dog does not need a toy pile in one apartment that takes up the living room and a toy pile in another apartment that covers the couch

Buying an expensive sofa because it is the only one whose cushions are deep enough for the dog’s tush is not recommended

Taking the dog to the vet a lot because he likes to go there is not recommended

Renting the largest and most expensive SUV on the lot so the dog will be comfortable is not recommended

Buying a rotating $80 assortment of snacks because the dog gets bored with the same treats is not recommended

Buying poached salmon from the gourmet fish store for the dog is not recommended

Buying the dog $6 cups of artisanal gelato because the dog is hot is not recommended

Buying the dog gourmet waffles with whipped cream from the truck when he bays at it is not recommended

 

And that’s just off the top of my black and tan head. Yes, I imagine that my humans are just chock-a block with frugal tips given that my food, wardrobe, medical and entertainment budget is bigger than theirs.

Even better, the fee for writing this post is one of those bowls with bumps that are supposed to slow down fast eating chow Hounds.  Clearly they have never seen me turn up my nose at endless bowls of kibble because either 1) the brand has less than 12% fat 2) the taste is not to the liking of the refined Wimsey palate or 3) there is nothing in the kibble but kibble.  And when I do eat, I am a leisurely eater, taking time to pause and fling the kibble around liberally and to see if there are more additives forthcoming from the refrigerator.  This offer is right up there with the lady who wanted me to review her jewelry!

Anyway, I think I will leave it there for now.  I wish everyone a happy July 4^th!  Independence, liberty and freedom are my watchwords. For my humans not so much.

Until next time,

Wimsey, a spendthrift Hound