Entry # 370
February 14, 2015
Hello Everyone, it’s me, Wimsey. wishing you a Happy Valentine’s
and President's Day from Manhattan’s Upper West Side where the cold weather has done nothing
to slow the ardor of the City’s
Hound-loving public. I have been out and about this week much to the consternation of my
(well-bundled up) human Maria and her (Michelin Man look alike) friend Elizabeth. I too am suitably caparisoned in my Chilly
Dog winter coat which garners many compliments among the canine fashion cognoscenti
here in one of the world’s great style capitals.
Sadly owing to the fact that my mouth is healed from recent
surgery, the coat and the Heinous Gentle Leader are back in play. However, my
humans have decided that since I like the soft Merrick canned food so much (and
now the Weruva samples that the nice lady in the pet shop provided) I will be
getting some canned food mixed in with the boring kibble. This is a welcome development and was almost
worth having the surgery for.
Now as many of you know, I am a finicky eater and like my food
custom-prepared to my exacting specifications. This also applies to the canned
food where any large chunks of meat must be broken up into more Wimsey-pleasing
pieces. So Elizabeth did this for me the other day but was seriously negligent
in the matter of the carrots. She was watching me eat my carefully curated
lunch (kibble, fresh boiled chicken breast, Merrick beef stew, roasted fresh
yam and some canned pumpkin) when I removed an offensively long baby carrot
from the mix and spat in on the floor. Now in my defense I did try to be cooperative
and eat the thing. I picked it up and rolled it around in my mouth several
times before concluding that its
dimensions were seriously displeasing. 
The mouth feel was all wrong. The advantage of
demanding that one of your humans watch you eat is that they are available to
assist you in these types of culinary crises.
Elizabeth finally realized that some major intervention was called for
and broke the carrot in two and hand fed it to me. Once properly sized, the
carrot was easily consumed and I was able to resume my gustatory activities. I
don’t know how I am expected to eat carrots of the wrong shape. When Maria heard about this, she properly
admonished Elizabeth about the importance of not neglecting the carrots when
sizing my meal. I am hopeful that this experience will not be repeated. I sympathize with the nut-rage lady—I too am
passionate about good service. Other people’s.
The mouth feel was all wrong. The advantage of
demanding that one of your humans watch you eat is that they are available to
assist you in these types of culinary crises.
Elizabeth finally realized that some major intervention was called for
and broke the carrot in two and hand fed it to me. Once properly sized, the
carrot was easily consumed and I was able to resume my gustatory activities. I
don’t know how I am expected to eat carrots of the wrong shape. When Maria heard about this, she properly
admonished Elizabeth about the importance of not neglecting the carrots when
sizing my meal. I am hopeful that this experience will not be repeated. I sympathize with the nut-rage lady—I too am
passionate about good service. Other people’s.
In other news, Elizabeth was at a conference on Monday and
Tuesday and Maria had to come home from work to walk me midday. I hate this.
Generally I feel that if I park myself on the couch and refuse to move Elizabeth
will appear as usual.
After this, things fortunately
went back to normal, which is to say that Elizabeth picked me up the in
afternoon and took me to her place where I draped myself on the legs of her
office chair so she couldn’t move. I also like to wait until she is deeply
involved in her work to decide that I am now ready for my early evening walk. I then chivvy her to get ready, which fearing
an eliminatory emergency, she does with alacrity.
But fortunately the people who admire me on the street know
nothing about any of this and continue
to praise my apparent loving and genial disposition. I am a classic case of the iron fist inside
the velvet glove. Or velvet wrinkles. And
as usual this week my vocal skills have also been much admired-- although a
lady asked if I had a sore throat. She
thought that I was trying to bark and a throat ailment caused a bay, which
amused my humans. I was offended at the notion that my beautiful voice could be
thought to be a side effect of illness.
My baying, as you might imagine, causes quite a stir and the reactions to
it vary dramatically. There are the
people who run. There are the people who smile.
And there are the people who come to tell my humans that they hear me
all the time and wondered what was making that noise. People usually want to know why I am baying—probably
for reassurance that I am not about to do something violent. Everybody loves to hear me bay. Especially
me. Then there is the doorman on West End Avenue who himself bays whenever he
sees me and the superintendent of the building across the street who always
asks Elizabeth if she can get me to bay for him. Really, if my humans could “get me to do
something” I guarantee it wouldn’t involve baying. 
Sadly my schedule is about to be disrupted again because
Monday and Tuesday is the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. My humans are
excited to be in attendance and we are all excited that I am not. Those of you who read this blog regularly
have heard tell of my in-ring show dog antics—everything from refusing to trot,
gaiting with my nose on the ground, refusing to stack, baying and of course
persistently trying to socialize with the lady Hounds. But I have devoted less
attention to the out of ring experience. Westminster is a benched show which
means that dogs are obligated to stay on their benches all day which meant that
my humans were obligated to try to keep me entertained all day. Not a simple task for an easily bored Hound
such as myself who is eager to be off following scent.
So I would stand around in front of my crate, meeting and
greeting (sliming and baying) in between walks to the indoor potty area where I
was infamous for poking people in the tush (it’s tough to control a 130 pound
Hound amidst an abundance of highly accessible
tushes) and then sniffing the pen instead of eliminating in it. And since there was much that I wanted to do
that I was prevented from doing this necessitated an extensive amount of protest
baying which necessitates an extensive amount of in-between-bay head shakes
which necessitated an extensive amount of flying spit which necessitated an
extensive amount of apologizing on the part of my humans (or running).
I mean seriously, why
was I there if not to gratify the needs of my nose? The only positive thing was the scorn and
humiliation heaped upon my humans by the people showing normal dogs (i.e. not
bloodhounds and not me)—it was all “Control your dog!” And many years later my humans are still
trying to do just that. Equally
unsuccessfully of course, but not for want of trying. This was all especially
humiliating for Elizabeth who specializes in working with dominant breed
shelter dogs. But the thing is, those
dogs care, I don’t. Those of you who
have Hounds know what I am talking about—we are just not hierarchical canines.
It makes no difference to me whether you are an alpha or an omega, I am just
going to do what I want to do regardless.
One of my favorite stories involves the time I disrupted an
entire photo shoot and a dominance-oriented guy who trained military dogs
stepped in to wrangle me. He clearly
thought the issue was Elizabeth’s incompetence.
My motto, “Wrangle not lest ye be wrangled” was much in evidence and at
the end of it we had one sweaty dominance trainer and one Hound who was still
doing just as he pleased. The guy handed
Elizabeth my leash and shook his head and said, “I just don’t understand. He doesn’t respond to intimidation or force
and he doesn’t work for food. How do you get him to do what you want?” The
answer is that you don’t. In my
experience, things go a lot more smoothly if you let me have my way. NB: I had
a very short career as a canine model.
Well good luck to everyone at Westminster—better you than
me. My humans will be ringside cheering on the Hounds and admiring the
deportment of the regular dogs.
In honor
of its being Valentine’s Day, another excerpt from The Wimsey Institute of
Houndish Art. The gorgeous lady Hound in
question is Phoebe who co-owns breeder, owner handler Karen Dewey with Garth
who will be at Westminster.
Also this week, more
picture from my archive—although a few new ones too—owing to my humans’
laziness.
Until next time,
Wimsey, Everyone’s Valentine
