Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #246

2012-01-27T21:13:00.019-05:00

Entry #246

January 27, 2012

Hello everyone, it’s me Wimsey-- back after my short hiatus and coming to you as usual from Manhattan’s Upper West Side, commonly known to its residents as the Center of the Universe where one can get anything at any hour of the day or night-- except of course a well behaved Hound, which is never on offer.

Winter also appears to be not on offer as we are once again having mild and rainy weather making for some exciting walks on slippery mud and some even more exciting (at least for me) Hound clean up operations afterwards (I go from being black and tan to being black and black). I pride myself on the fact that it takes almost as long to clean me up as to actually walk me and then I always manage to leave a pile of dirt somewhere about the abode anyway. This is in addition to the floors which assume a crunchy character after one of my lengthy and moist perambulations.

Well since last we spoke my human Maria celebrated a birthday and, and, as is customary around here, I was awarded a stuffed corduroy monkey to celebrate. But the occasion was marred by the week’s absence of her friend Elizabeth who normally walks and takes care of me during the day and who insisted on celebrating her birthday in Oslo and London (today’s weather should bring back pleasant English memories—a good thing all her clothes have hoods—having one hand on an umbrella and one on my leash not being compatible with continued viability).

I was naturally banned from the packing process when all manner of non-smelly and drool stained clothes that Elizabeth had forgotten that she ever had emerged from the depths of her closet. Most of her wardrobe has inexorably migrated from non-Hound to Hound because, although she may have forgotten the clothes in the depths of her closet, I have not. In any case I had a professional walker for the week for which my humans were charged a lot of money—I can’t imagine why.

But as is frequently the case in these matters, absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or at least more forgetful. So in addition to watching the canines of Oslo (dogs are apparently enjoying an upsurge in popularity there) disport themselves in the fine winter weather, Elizabeth took a break from shopping for sweaters in which to walk me (and from the drinking of $25 cocktails) to visit a pet store to peruse merchandise that might be acceptable for my entertainment.

Owing to the fact that I have been getting shirty about having my legs stuffed into my winter coats my humans are looking for coats that both have no legs and also protect my delicate undercarriage from the cold (although cold has been in as short a supply this season as my sartorial cooperation). A fine Finnish company called Hurtta makes such an article but sadly attempts to find one sized to my generous proportions proved futile. So Elizabeth was forced to buy me a stuffed green hedgehog instead. It could have been a lot worse—while she was there a young German Shorthair Pointer was being fitted for leggings. He wasn’t happy.

But between shopping expeditions and cocktail sticker shock Elizabeth did get to view a preserved Viking ship. I myself have always felt an affinity for these folks—I admire their rather determined manner and their propensity to acquire goods and real estate not originally belonging to them. Also they stole women. I would have fit right in.

So then after Oslo it was off to the UK, where Elizabeth’s first stop was to a town outside of London to visit this fellow, whom Elizabeth has known since he was a puppy. He has since developed some shocking habits liking coming when called (even abandoning a delectable pile of horse poop!) and waiting to be fed from the table instead of stealing or putting his nose in the food in order to compromise its palatability—Elizabeth felt so bad for him that he had half her dinner anyway.

Then there was the issue of his not shoving her off the bed when he climbed into it and of his using his soft muzzle to gently suggest that he’d like a scratch rather than using a paw to forcefully thwack her like a normal dog. Also Ollie didn’t smell and he shed very little for so hairy a beast. Elizabeth was shocked. The only bright spot came when his human complained that he pulled when he was on his leash. But then Elizabeth took the leash and fell about laughing. If I “pulled” like that I’d earn a cookie. Pulling, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder (or in the dislocated shoulder of the dragee).

And then Elizabeth repaired to London where as is usual I managed to do some major vacation hijacking. Like when Elizabeth was in the middle of a serious business meeting and got interrupted by an urgent email from Mr. Chewy inquiring if I’d like to review some treats. But really what could be more important than securing me a supply of treats from Mr. Chewy?

And then instead of asking the hotel concierge for recommendations about restaurants or cultural events she had him prepare a list of London pet stores where she could do some more shopping for me.

Now all these stores are very small compared to the ones in New York—apparently most people buy their gear online—but Harrods does have a rather large pet department, albeit a very small- dog centric one, where she found only one toy of a size suitable for my use.

But she did manage to pick up a stuffed green monkey from a shop off of Kings Road in Chelsea and although there was nothing in the Portobello Road pet store she did pass paparazzi waiting for Taylor Swift to finish lunch. (I sympathize, although the paparazzi who follow me usually wait for me to finish chewing up a water bottle).

Well finally it was off to the National Gallery to do some work on additional paintings for my art history app that my humans are preparing for the iPad. So all in all I had quite a successful day in London without ever having to leave the couch.

But should I ever decide to jump the pond I would cut a dashing figure (literally)—the only problem being this sign. Canines are permitted on the London Underground but there would be the issue of transporting me up and down the escalators. Perhaps my humans could hire a Sherpa (a very strong Sherpa) or rig up a regal palanquin to comply with this regulation.

But there is no place like home, especially when there is a Hound involved and with one click of her black and tan slippers (and a lot of help and gin and tonics from Virgin Atlantic) Elizabeth was back in New York again. Her customs declaration, like the large Harrods bag she carried that should have been filled with luxury apparel, was filled instead with nothing but dog toys. My humans leave me at their peril.

Anyway when Elizabeth at long last eagerly bounded into my apartment to walk me yesterday I rose majestically, gave her a few obligatory swishes of my massive tail and demanded a cookie. Welcome home.

Well I think that’s about it for this week; I have so far only been able to get my mouth on the green monkey owing to the fact that it is the quietest of the toys and the most suitable for jet lagged nerves. And of course 1 small jet-lagged human+ 1 large non-jet lagged Hound+1 park full of mud and slippery leaves= 3 hours of fun.

Until next time,

Wimsey, the Viking Mudhound

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #245

2012-01-13T14:54:00.019-05:00

Entry #245

January 13, 2012

Hello Everyone, it’s me Wimsey, coming to you from Manhattan’s Upper West Side where after some mild weather we are finally having some good old fashioned wintery bluster! I even saw a few snow flakes during today’s Central Park perambulation—a harbinger of things to come, I hope, as the joys of snow (at least for me) are almost equal to the joys of all the work snow makes for my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth.

First, they must suit up in the full Michelin Man Monty, replete with high traction boots and extensive layers of movement restricting clothing. Then they must pack up sets of crampons for use in the park to maximize the chances of getting out of there with a minimal number of bruises and broken bones—this is in addition to my cookies, a supply of bribing turkey and canteens of water lest I dehydrate in all the fun. Next, they have to suit me up in my elasticized, insulated and waterproof snowsuit (Aka “the Speedo”) no easy feat in a giant, rapidly moving Hound with a strong predilection for going commando. Then I have to be harnessed up and my paws sprayed with special paw spray to protect my delicate tootsies from succumbing to the vicissitudes of the ice and salt.

And of course after it is all over the process has to be repeated in reverse and I have to be thoroughly toweled off and fed a sustaining meal to replenish the energy that I’ve burned off. My humans also have to be toweled off but they prefer to drink a sustaining adult beverage to replenish the self-esteem that I’ve destroyed (there is something irresistibly entertaining to passersby about the sight of humans being dragged into snow banks by an irrepressible Hound).

Is it any wonder that winter is my favorite season!

But before I proceed any further, there will be no blog post next week and perhaps none the week after, depending on events, owing to a schedule conflict. Alas January brings my humans’ birthday season—Maria’s on January 18^th and Elizabeth’s on January 21^st and this year Elizabeth is jumping the pond to London and Oslo. Initially she was going to go dog sledding in the Norwegian arctic (we will say nothing about how her inability to control one mild-mannered Hound might not augur well for her ability to control a team of 6-12 robust huskies) but then some business turned up in London so she will just be in Oslo on a shopping spree devoted to the acquisition of warmer and more durable winter Hounding apparel. And if this trip is anything like her previous trips she will eschew museums and other high-minded cultural pursuits in favor of doing a tour of pet shops and dog bakeries. I am always with her whether I am physically present or not—mind control being one of the key principles of Houndism.

Anyway, it turns out that when Elizabeth looked in her closet to see what she might want to wear on her trip she was astounded to find that her wardrobe had insidiously morphed into racks of Hounding clothes—a vast collection of shirts, sweaters, trousers, coats, jackets, gloves and hats all with but a single purpose—the walking of me! It occurred to her that since she was not going dog sledding in the Arctic people in nice hotels might not find the sight of a baggy, smelly woman all that inviting so I have been cruelly left alone this week whilst she went off in search of actual normal, non-smelly (at least temporarily), non-baggy clothing. Her purchases are all now encased in many layers of plastic and locked away deep in her closet in the hopes of rendering them impermeable to my odor and drool (the odor being currently enhanced by a spot of anal gland trouble)—at least until she leaves. I really hate it when my humans wear clothing that doesn’t smell like me and does not bear my distinctive emblems of drool!

Consequently, it has been something of a quiet week around here; I was supposed to have a visit from my French bulldog puppy Pluto but he cancelled. Puppies are so unreliable—he probably preferred to stay home and chew up a good book instead. But at seven months, in spite of the vast differences in our size and appearance, he grows more like me each week—including mimicking my propensity (some would say talent) for developing annoying ailments requiring multiple vet visits. Last week he had an eye infection (one of my perennial favorites—nothing like the oozing of green goo to get the humans hopping) and also a worn down nail that bleeds (I’ve never tried that one, but I admire innovation, especially in one so young—he has a bright future).

And speaking of matters veterinary--owing to the renewed vigor of my anal glands I am once again on flagyl which means I am once again putting my flews to the use for which they were intended—hiding things from my humans. I have spoken many times about the various parts of my anatomy to which I am inordinately attached but I think I have given my flews short thrift:

Top Ten Things Flews are Good For

1. Hiding pills and other medicaments that one has appeared to swallow for later disposal in inconspicuous places, like the bed. The capaciousness of flews is such that even if they are inspected a small pill lodged expertly in a fold is likely to be overlooked.

2. The carrying of filthy tennis balls that one has retrieved from the park and desires to play with and dismember in the comfort of one’s own home. They are almost impossible to detect visually from the outside thus vastly reducing the risk of premature confiscation.

3. As a large reservoir for the copious amounts of drool that one always likes to have at one’s disposal for the purpose of flinging on unsuspecting persons. Preferably well-dressed unsuspecting persons.

4. As a caddy to ferry considerable quantities of water from one’s bowl to one’s humans for subsequent release onto the aforementioned. Preferably at night and preferably while they are asleep.

5. The secreting of chattels that one has been interrupted in the process of stealing and for which one’s human has begun to search.

6. The secreting of a chicken leg or a steak that one has lifted from the kitchen counter that one would prefer to eat peacefully in one’s bed, in one’s human’s bed or hiding behind the couch.

7. For the transport of fragrant organic matter of indeterminate origin from the outdoors to the indoors for subsequent dispersal on the walls, ceilings, furniture and heirloom oriental carpet.

8. As the fountainhead for the creation of appetizing drool stalactites that one likes to produce in front of people trying to eat in outdoor cafes and at dinner tables in order to make known one’s desire to share in the bounty and to encourage generous activities thereof.

9. To induce panic in one’s human at one’s apparent ingestion of dangerous materials such as chicken bones or television remotes that one has merely tucked away for safekeeping.

10. To make one look unbearably cute when one splays them out in a skate-like configuration while napping in a spot that one is not supposed to be napping in causing humans to allow you undisturbed rest and to buy you a present instead of scolding you and to also ignore the fact that you are a voracious and unrepentant thief of their money, time and possessions.

But really the best thing about flews is that humans don’t have them and like our finely honed sense of smell, they define the superior design of The Hound.

Well I think I will leave it there for this week. But before I go I would be remiss in not mentioning that on this day in 1559 Elizabeth’s favorite Tudor, Elizabeth I was crowned in Westminster Abbey. Those of you who read this blog regularly know that Maria and I have had to endure interminable lectures on Tudor history (and sadly not the racy TV show either) owing to her fascination. And as everyone knows the (alleged) Virgin Queen (Robert Dudley was pretty hot) refused to have a husband because she would not be ruled. And although one can truly admire this Hound-like sentiment, papers from my Tudor ancestor, Sir Edmund Wimsey, reveal that in fact there was (seldom) any room in her bed for anyone other than her sprawling, snoring Hound. So while Elizabeth was a source of awe and reverence to her subjects to her Hound she was just one more human source of belly rubs, toys, bones and of course awe and reverence. Hounds are like that. We’re kind of like that popular kid in high school that everyone wants to be around but nobody knows why.

Anyway, I hope you all survived this Friday 13^th. My piece of bad luck was the human lack of interest in having me jump in the Central Park Lake to get better acquainted with the large number of ducks and geese congregating there today. But tomorrow is the 14^th…

Until next time,

Wimsey, flewsie extraordinaire

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #244

2012-01-06T22:08:00.029-05:00

Entry #244

January 6, 2012

Hello Everyone, it’s me Wimsey here to welcome you to the first post of the New Year from my Houndly outpost on Manhattan’s Upper West Side where my resolution to become a better Hound threatens the sanity of my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth. As we know the better the Hound the worse the dog, or at least this appears to be the case from all the ‘Wimsey No’s” I achieved this week.

But fortunately my humans do have a sense of humor (you’d have to to be around me). When, after one particularly gruesome and extended spate of oppositional towing, illicit stick eating and garbage, horse poop and water bottle hunting, I parked myself in front of a fountain demanding water service in true Hound Pasha style both my humans cracked up. It was all “He’s really dreadful isn’t he” amidst even more chuckling at the audacious nature of my sense of entitlement. In the hands of normal people I’d have been sentenced to remedial classes or worse a long time ago but if Hounds are a special breed of dog then the humans who live with them are a special breed of people. Not sane but special.

So as today is the Feast of the Epiphany I thought I’d offer some epiphanies regarding Hounds (although I myself would have preferred the feast):

Human Epiphanies Regarding Hounds

It’s not all about me; it’s all about the Hound.

Having a dog sit in your lap can be a painful experience.

Hounds are unceasing founts of unconditional love—for themselves.

Electronic devices are edible.

Hounds are neither deaf nor stupid they just don’t want to do what humans want them to do.

All those things that disappeared didn’t get lost.If I If If have it he wants it.

If I want to do it he won’t want me to do it.

If I don’t want him to do it he will want to do it.

Handsome is not necessarily as handsome does.

Cute on the outside leads to bad behavior on the inside.

Whereas the outside of a horse is good for the inside of a man, the outside of a Hound is good for shoving a man off a bed.

One can lose one’s lunch without ever having eaten it.

Who’s walking whom is never really in question.

The purpose of a Hound’s flews is to collect miscellaneous and contraband material (unswallowed pills, rotting tennis balls, decayed vegetation, pieces of kibble, etc.) for later dispersal in locations likely to cause the most inconvenience (under the sheets, on top of the furniture, in the bathtub, on the walls etc.).

Pedestrians do not have a sense of humor when being hit in the face with flying drool.

“Personality”=badly behaved.

Hounds have a wonderful temperament as long as they get what they want.

People who told you about their Hound’s antics weren’t exaggerating.

Anyway, my human Maria had an epiphany about me—she realized that if I am exercised extensively and until exhaustion I am less likely to destroy her house, something she realized too late with her previous two bloodhounds.

As a consequence Maria called upon the services of her dog-loving friend Elizabeth to help out, as exercising me extensively and until exhaustion is manifestly a two-person job. Then Elizabeth—who has been very successful as a volunteer trainer of shelter dogs—had an epiphany about me too: I’m not trainable. Fortunately she is, so we get on quite well.

But it would be remiss of me as a history loving Hound not to note that January 6^th is an auspicious date for things not working out too well for the English monarchy—King Harold was crowned on this date in 1066, an event that William the Conqueror had something forceful to say about. But Our Bill did bring bloodhounds to the Scepter’d Isle so it all worked out in the end. Except if you were a Saxon king. And today is the birthday of Richard II who inherited the crown of England as an obnoxious ten-year-old boy and got deposed as an obnoxious 32-year-old man. He had apparently not learned that crucial Houndish lesson that being obnoxious, dictatorial, self-worshipping, self involved and abusing power are all absolutely fine as long as you are also cute and charming.

But in the here and now, what week would be complete without spending my humans’ money on a visit to the vet! This time it was for anal gland issues, a condition which has given a whole new dimension to my usual Hound stink and engendered yet another round of (turkey administered) medication. I also got to weigh in and am finally up to 128lbs—my weight before I got sick last spring!

The important thing about gaining my weight back is that I have regained my weight advantage over Elizabeth. It was bad enough being sick but having her outweigh me led to some serious consequences, like not being able to go where I wanted. (Sadly, my other human Maria is too tall to ever offer me much of a weight advantage).

But Elizabeth did figure out a way to use my weight advantage, especially when I want to go one way and she another (which is most of the time) to perform an exercise recommended by her physical therapist (a good physical therapist is de rigeur for anyone involved with Hounds). The exercise is usually done by holding onto something immovable, like a ballet barre or a locked front door knob and leaning back with one’s full weight to stretch the back muscles. Being the immovable object in the exercise is quite an impressive feat of strength on my part and a real crowd pleaser. But after showing off my cement block-like abilities I like to move unexpectedly which releases the tension on the leash and sends Elizabeth flying backwards. It’s all good fun and at least when she’s done picking herself up off the ground her back muscles have gotten a nice stretch. And some people a good laugh—I’m all about entertainment

Well as you can imagine I have been out and about quite a bit this week—meeting and greeting and cadging and stealing to celebrate the New Year. We had a couple of arctic like days, which necessitated me getting fleeced, not something I am generally in favor of or cooperative about.

However, as with everything I do there is entertainment value and I rather like being chased around by frustrated humans brandishing my chartreuse fleece. And as the chase all ends with mouthfuls of turkey and fistfuls of cookies it is a game well worth playing.

But as befits the first full week of the New Year I would like to examine some top New Year’s resolutions and see how having a Hound like myself affects the process:

Top New Year’s Resolutions

1. Drink Less Alcohol: On the one hand the potential deleterious affects of walking a large, powerful and advantage-taking Hound whilst in a state of inebriation are unlikely to be conducive to staying out of the Emergency Room. But on the other hand once the large, powerful advantage-taking Hound has been walked humans often find that the salubrious effects of a large glass of gin are a helpful remedy in recovering from the experience.

Particularly if the Hound has stuck his head into someone’s shopping bag or poked a neighbor in the backside.

2. Eat Healthy Food: This one only works if the Hound somehow dislikes the healthy food and is disinclined to steal it. Hounds impede the eating of any type of food through mechanisms such as stealing it, leaving nose prints on it, flinging great gobs of shimmering drool upon it or releasing large quantities of appetite suppressing gas

at meal times.

3. Get a Better Job: Hounds can be quite helpful in this regard owing to the incentive our humans have to earn increasing amounts of money to pay for all the stuff we destroy, our vet bills and the large numbers of toys we require to distract us so we don’t destroy even more stuff. That is in addition to acquiring excellent health insurance benefits for the odd Hound-related tumble down the stairs and other such mishaps.

In addition, humans who live with Hounds make excellent employees as their Hounds permit them to take few vacations.

4.Get fit and lose weight: Here we Hounds really excel at being helpful (if you net out the gin effect). We require copious amounts of outdoor exercise (cardio), pull like freight trains (abs and upper body) and change directions abruptly and powerfully in response to scent that you can’t see or smell (balance, agility and flexibility).

We also make eating rather difficult (see eat healthy food) and are prone to exercising our droit de seigneur in the matter of food sharing, particularly for foods high in calories.

5. Save Money: We Hounds do not encourage the saving of money; we encourage (require might be more accurate) the spending of money. On us.

6. Quit Smoking: Hounds can help with this. First if you smoke it is difficult to breath when in pursuit of a Hound in pursuit of a fast moving furry animal, a dog it wants to play with or a distant piece of garbage detected by its powerful nose. Second, the money spent on cigarettes is going to be needed to pay the Hound’s bills.

7. Manage Stress: Although normal dogs have been shown to lower blood pressure we Hounds are guaranteed to raise it. But we can help you achieve a Zen-like tranquility if you are willing to forgo your attachment to material objects and the esteem and approval of your fellow humans.

8. Take a Vacation: Don’t even think about it.

Well I think that is all for this week. The New Year is off to a fine if smelly start.

Until next time,

Wimsey, a Resolute Hound

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #243

2011-12-29T19:27:00.022-05:00

Entry #243

December 30, 2011

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here coming to you from the epicenter of the country’s New Year’s festivities Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Well actually the true epicenter, Times Square, is about a mile and half to the south but it’s such a paltry distance for a traveling Hound such as myself that it barely counts. In any case, my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth will not be standing around in the cold watching the ball drop but will be sitting around in the warm scratching me watching the drool drop.

It’s this type of preoccupation with me that prompted this Christmas gift to arrive in the mail for my human Maria. In case you can’t read it, it is a bottle of Wimsey Eau de Hound because “you can never be too rich or smell too much like a Hound (Didn’t the Duchesse of Windsor say that?) And the back states that the product is “Distinctive, Penetrating, Insouciant, Stubborn” (sound or rather smell familiar?) and is “For the woman who stands out in a

crowd or perhaps it’s just her Wimsey.” Well the only reason my humans stand out in a crowd is because of me—the smell alone is enough to attract notice let alone my baying, poking and leaning to say nothing of my surprise purse and shopping bag inspections (a surprise at least to those being inspected).

And the perfume inside—Obsession. Which pretty much describes both my humans’ attitude towards me as well as my own attitude towards me. So, many thanks to Maria’s friend Kurt (why do Maria and her friends all sound like they belong in The Sound of Music? I am surprised that I was not named Captain von Trapp—I’m certainly musical enough) and rest assured that there is not a perfume in the world strong enough to interfere with my Houndly odor. But on the subject of The Sound of Music I have some ideas:

Wimsey’s Sound of Music

Servant: Captain von Trapp, the new dog trainer is here!

Captain von Trapp: It’s about time. That last one was terrible.

Servant: The doctor says she will be out of the hospital soon.

Captain von Trapp: Well I can’t imagine what she thought she was doing waving a piece of liver around and yelling, “all dogs come.”

Servant: But they did come Captain.

Captain: Yes, but they also sent her flying and trampled her while wrestling over the liver. I don’t think that’s what she intended. I mean there are only seven Hounds after all and I can control them perfectly.

Servant: Yes, but you stand behind an invisible fence.

Captain: Sitting on them also works. And there is always the gentle leader.

Servant: But I think the idea is that they are supposed to do what you tell them without compulsion.

Captain: But they’re Hounds!

Servant: Well this last trainer was still better than the one before, you know the little guy who tried to alpha roll them.

Captain: Yes I remember. He was very disappointed that the Hounds liked to be alpha rolled. Apparently it reminds them of belly rubs. And of course the alpha rolling had absolutely no effect on their disinclination to listen to him.

Servant: Captain von Trapp, she’s here! May I present Maria.

Captain: Ye gads, why is she dressed like that?!

Servant: She says they’re her Hound clothes.

Captain: Well they certain smell like them. Anyway, I’ll introduce her to the Hounds. She does have good insurance, right.

Servant: Yes Captain.

Captain: Very well. Fraulein may I present my Hounds: Smelly, Loud, Obnoxious, Willful, Entêté (his mother was French), Disobedient and Entitled.

Maria: They’re so cute! And what charming names!

Captain: You may not think so when you try to train them.

Maria: Train them? You mean you think I am here to train them? But why? They are perfect just the way they are.

Captain: Then why are you here?

Maria: To train you. You are the problem. Haven’t you watched any dog training TV shows? Anyway, the nuns at the Convent of New Salzburg warned me that there was some disturbed baron who was trying to upend the divine plan.

Captain: But surely as a superior being I am supposed to issue commands and they are supposed to follow them?

Maria: You live with Hounds and you think you are the superior being? That’s your first mistake. And if you persist in issuing orders that you expect them to obey then you will doom yourself to a life of disappointment and unhappiness.

Captain: Then what should I do?

Maria: You must learn to accept what you cannot control. Like when they eat the couch or dig up your manicured gardens or put holes in your best dress uniform. The Hounds were sent here to teach us patience, humility and tolerance and to make us understand what is important.

Captain: Which is?

Maria: Them.

Several weeks later:

Captain: Kurt! Kurt! What happened to all my blankets? I froze last night!

Servant: Fraulein Maria made dog coats out of them.

Captain: And the shower curtains have disappeared!

Servant: She used them to make raincoats—apparently the Hounds don’t like being wet.

Captain: What are we going to do about Maria?

Servant: I suggest marrying her Sir. No one else will.

Captain: Not a white wedding though.

Well you get the idea. But there are a lot of misconceptions on the subject of Hound obedience (an oxymoron if ever there was one)—like that we are not all that bright. This is completely untrue and we Hounds actually harbor a surfeit of neurons in our occipital protuberances (otherwise known as our pointy heads). The real problem is that while humans think they are saying one thing, in Houndspeak they are really saying quite another.

Houndspeak Obedience Command Translations

Sit: Sit means that a human is holding a tasty snack in their hand and that the fastest and most efficient way to obtain this tasty snack is to lunge for it and grab it. Should you wish to practice your sit an excellent time is in the show ring when your human is trying to stack you or when the judge is examining you.

Down: (see sit). Alternatively this command can mean that you are somehow in the way or are too large or too intimidating in a standing or seated position. As all of these attributes are all extremely desirable why would you mitigate the advantage of them by lying down? Consequently the command “down” really means “loom larger.” But “down” can safely be practiced in tandem with “thwack” when a belly rub is desired or in the show ring during your down and back when you want to scratch that itch on your back.

Heel: “Heel” is a command of weakness that means your human is tired, injured, embarrassed or fed up, all of which means, “pull harder, you’re winning.” “Heel” and “Hound” are antithetical concepts like matter and anti-matter and should never be brought together. A Hound, by dint of thousands of years of creative genetics, must be out front dragging a human along the fascinating line of the scent du jour. There are almost no circumstances in which a Hound should practice heel, with the exception perhaps of trying to chew a hole in a human’s jacket pocket to access a desirable treat.

Come: Contrary to what humans think, this is never a good command as it usually means that whatever it is that your are enjoying yourself doing your human is not enjoying themselves watching and prefers that you desist. Plus humans seldom issue this command when they want to do something nice like giving you a new toy or some gelato because when you see or sense the good thing the command is superfluous. “Come” can lead to baths, vet visits, crates, silly hats etc. But you can practice “come” whenever a situation arises (like a dinner party) in which you can make a colossal nuisance of yourself.

No: The command “no” essentially means that you are on to a good thing-go for it. There is no stronger word with which to encourage a Hound than “no” and the louder and more vigorous the command the better the thing is that you are on to. Hounds can practice their version of “no” only when in the presence of grooming implements such as the nail clipper or walking control devices such as the gentle leader.

Stay: “Stay,” like “no” is a command of encouragement: that is, if you don’t stay where you are you are on the verge of finding something or doing something that possesses exceptional entertainment value—such as presenting your posterior to the camera instead of your face. Conversely, if you do stay, something unpleasant is likely to ensue (see come). “Stay” can be successfully practiced when it is time to leave the park or when sleeping the wide way across a bed or when hogging the kitchen floor.

Drop It: “Drop It” is another command of encouragement as it is self evident that if your human wants you to drop it dropping it is manifestly not in your best interest. “Drop it” really means, “swallow fast” or “run away now.” Hounds may want to practice “drop it” however when that piece of horse poop that they were about to ingest turns out disappointingly to be a rock or when a pill is inserted into their mouth.

Anyway, needless to say I had a good time demonstrating my mastery of these commands over the holiday week and was suitably rewarded. I was given a nice large bear in a Santa Hat on Christmas Day and on Tuesday, my first afternoon back with Elizabeth while Maria was at work, she gave me a large red and green Christmas tortoise. And as they say, no good deed goes unpunished as it turns out that this tortoise makes the loudest most hideous noise—like something being killed! It’s fabulous and had Elizabeth reaching for the aspirin and fearing a visit from concerned neighbors in no time flat. And although my usual modus operandi with stuffed toys is to eviscerate and extract the squeaker I have no intention of doing so with my tortoise.

And on Wednesday my French bulldog puppy Pluto joined me at Elizabeth’s where I supervised the little tyke’s activities under Elizabeth’s eagle eye. He is a chip off the old block and demonstrated this when, in spite of not being overly interested in his own kibble, tried to eat mine. I understood the principle perfectly but eating that stuff voluntarily and without tasty add-ins was nothing short of heroic.

Anyway I think that wraps it up for this week. Holidays can be so stressful—all the petting, admiration and food can really make one yearn for some peace and quiet. But then there is that tortoise. (My New Year’s resolutions: play with the tortoise when Elizabeth is on the phone, play with the tortoise if Elizabeth tries to take a nap, play with the tortoise when Elizabeth sits at the computer, play with the tortoise when Elizabeth wants to watch TV, play with the tortoise when Elizabeth tries to have a relaxing lunch…)

Happy New Year To Everyone,

Wimsey (von Trapp)

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #242

2011-12-22T18:06:00.029-05:00

Entry #242

December 23, 2011

Hello Everyone, it’s me Santa Wimsey (not) coming to you from the Upper West Side of Manhattan where, Santa hat not withstanding, I am expecting to be the recipient, rather than the bestower of some Christmas cheer. My human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have bought me some gifts and are also busy discussing the best time to buy me a cup of Grom gelato to help get me in a holiday frame of mind. Nothing quite says Christmas like spoon-feeding a Hound a cup of expensive, Italian gelato.

Pity it won’t help them in the least when it comes to me towing them where I want to go, which in any season is generally some place that I am not supposed to be or else somewhere that there is food that I am not supposed to have. But really feeding me my favorite gelato is just recompense for two weeks worth of making me wear silly hats and a festive ruff. I don’t think anyone would trust a Hound cum reindeer to pull a sled lest they end up treeing a raccoon in it or trust a Hound cum elf or Santa to actually give away toys—at least not without substantial modification.

In any case, in the spirit of the season I once again put in an appearance at the Columbus Circle Christmas market where my imposing presence and loud voice always attract a considerable amount of attention. I was even recognized by one of the vendors owing to the regularity of my annual visits and he was all “Oh look! It’s the Christmas Bloodhound!” which was very gratifying to both my humans and myself. (At least he didn’t say “Oh, no! It’s him again). Nevertheless I was still not allowed to shop in his stall.

This yuletide excursion, as is common with many of my excursions, is fraught with peril and hard work—managing leash and camera whilst preventing me from messing with merchandise or flinging drool and warning those wishing to pet me of the hazards of becoming quickly covered in spit. And that is without the distraction of talking to the multitudes who want to hear all about me-especially about how it is possible for my humans to survive in the middle of Manhattan with an extravagantly large creature such as myself who possesses a surfeit of “personality.”

Well this year in a break from tradition I will not be reprising my version of a “’Twas the Night before Christmas”—for those wishing to read or re-read it, please head over to the end of blog post #194. In addition to “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” this is a season that has also proved inspirational to composers, artists, writers and of course the folks in Hollywood. But if a Hound had been in charge of writing Christmas movies, things would have been very different:

All I Want for Christmas: instead of being a touching tale of how two children reunite their estranged parents it would be a more transactional tale of how two children reunite their estranged parents in exchange for FAO Schwarz and Petco credit cards with their names on them and for a Hound who really does want everything for Christmas. And New Year’s. And President’s Day…

Babes in Toyland: Instead of being about apprentice toymakers the film would be about apprentice Hound puppies left unattended for an afternoon.

Bad Santa: Instead of being about a con man planning to rob a store on Christmas it would be about a Hound in a Santa hat who sits in people’s laps and robs them of their time, possessions and bank accounts. But unlike con men, he doesn’t go to jail; he just goes to the sofa.

A Christmas Carol: When the ghost of Jacob Marley appears Hound Scrooge becomes intensely interested in seeing if he is edible; when the ghosts of

Christmas Past, Present and Future arrive the Hound pays no attention to what they are saying and just bays at them because he’s bored and they are not giving him anything to play with. He then eats the turkey that he was supposed to give to Tiny Tim.

Christmas in Connecticut (nb: this is Elizabeth’s favorite Christmas movie—something about having a similar level of domestic skills as the heroine):In the Hound-written version the domestically challenged woman who pretends to be like Martha Stewart for her housekeeping column and then must pretend to marry a wealthy and obnoxious architect so she can entertain a returning GI and her boss at Christmas in a Connecticut house, would convince the architect to hand over the deed to the house because she is so cute, then kick him out and, having stolen the GI from his fiancé, would spend Christmas in the kitchen with her Hungarian Uncle Felix eating Hungarian delicacies.

Elf: Instead of being about a human who thinks he is an elf and searches for his family in New York it would be about a human who thinks he is a Hound and applies Houndly principles to end up being the first head of Goldman Sachs that everyone loves in spite of the fact that he steals things and doesn’t care about them.

Holiday Inn: Instead of being about singer who turns an economically infeasible isolated farm into an even more economically infeasible isolated inn that is only open on holidays, he turns it into a holiday boarding kennel for Hounds whose New York City owners are so desperate to get rid of their Hounds over the holidays that they pay exorbitant fees.

Plus he discovers the Hounds are unexpectedly imbued with musical talents that inspire him to write and release America’s first multi-species single, “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas That Stays White.”

How the Grinch Stole Christmas: Instead of being a fantasy about a Grinch who thinks he can steal Christmas by stealing the presents the Hound version is a more realistic film about a Grinch who knows he can steal Christmas by stealing the presents. In the end the Grinch is not sure what was more fun—the presents part or the stealing part. Consequently he has a wonderful Christmas whilst the residents of Whoville are forced to wait for the after Christmas sales.

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus: Instead of being about a little boy who sees his mother kissing his father in a Santa suit and tries to be naughty to drive Santa away, the Hound version is about a little boy who sees his mother kissing Santa Claus and is excited about all the extra presents his mother’s activities are going to generate for him.

White Christmas: In the original version two old army buddies in the entertainment business conspire to help their former commanding officer save an old inn into which he has sunk his life savings. Along the way they fall for two sisters with ensuing romantic complications. In the Hound version, the old army buddies tear down the inn and build a strip mall which makes them all rich because of the big business it does at Christmas. The film ends with a touching scene of the three men and their 19 year old model girlfriends watching the snow fall over the strip mall. White Christmases are very good for business.

Miracle on 34^th Street: Instead of being a heartwarming story about a delusional fellow who thinks he is Santa Claus and the little girl who believes him the Hound version is about a Hound who believes that he is well behaved and the delusional woman who believes in him.After a walk down 34^th Street at Christmas time results in the Hound being hauled into court for spitting in public, disturbing the peace and stealing Christmas presents from people’s shopping bags the case is dismissed because no one will testify against him because he’s so cute. The Hound’s human prefers to believe that the case was dismissed because her Hound is so well behaved and buys him a stuffed pink pig to celebrate.

The Nutcracker: Instead of being about a little girl who dreams that her nutcracker has turned into a handsome prince who whisks her off to the Land of the Sweets presided over by the Sugar Plum Fairy the Hound version is about a little girl who dreams that her nutcracker has turned into a handsome Hound who whisks her off to the Land of The Organ Meats presided over by the Chicken Liver Fairy. She swoons after witnessing the magnificent Waltz of the Gizzards and wakes up in her bed covered in mysterious slimy goo.

It’s a Wonderful Life: In the original version, rather than getting on a train to see the world George Baily stays in Bedford Falls and repeatedly sacrifices his ambition for the sake of others. Big messes ensue. An angel tries to make him feel better by trying to convince him that he’s really had a wonderful life. In the Hound version, George Baily goes off to see the world and has a great time. And he doesn’t need an angel to convince him that he actually has had a wonderful life—the glass of Cristal he’s holding works just fine.

Well you get the idea. In other Christmas related activities, I dropped by the vet’s office sporting my red and green antlers to wish the staff, amongst whom I spend so much time and my humans so much money, a Merry Christmas. Christmas miracles do occur—no one stuck a finger up my bottom. I accepted a cookie from them to mark the occasion.

And this year we all have something special to celebrate around here—my human Maria is finally going back to work, at least temporarily, after a lengthy, economic-induced hiatus. This means that Elizabeth will once again be doing my midday walks and I will get to hang out in her apartment and disrupt her activities (well maybe not all of us are celebrating). And as an added bonus my puppy Pluto might come over from time to time to keep me company.

Of course between the stink and the drool he might need a bath before he goes home, but it’s a small price to pay for learning from the master about how to get what one wants in life-- although Pluto is quite precocious in that way. He looks a determined little chap, doesn’t he?

Anyway, we here in Wimsey World wish you all the best for the season’s holidays. I have already been given one of my gifts (the pink pig) and am awaiting the others. But one way or another Santa comes every day for me, just a bit more so at this time of year to make up for the hats.

Until next time,

Wimsey, keeping Santa in business one present at a time

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #241

2011-12-16T11:48:00.017-05:00

Entry #241

December 16, 2011

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here, coming to you—antlers aside-- not from the frozen North but from the intermittently balmy precincts of Manhattan’s Upper West Side where we have yet to have a day on which I have been threatened with a coat and my humans have threatened to shape shift into Michelin men. And on the subject of antlers (and my other seasonal gear) my human Maria apologized to me every time her friend Elizabeth (the antler procurer- in- chief) demanded that I sport a pair for a photo. As you can see I have two pair because Elizabeth felt that the red and green ones were more festive but that the brown ones afforded a more natural look.

We will not go into the question of exactly how natural it can look for a bloodhound to have horns but suffice it to say that the fact that the color of the antlers was similar to that of my fur made them an irresistible purchase. In reality I also have a third pair of antlers (can one really have too many pairs of antlers?) but these were given to Elizabeth by a small dog human and they don’t resemble antlers so much as a little (and highly appropriate) “W” perched on top of my head. Of course my humans should be very glad that I do not actually have antlers—I imagine getting thwacked with them when I want something would be a lot more painful than getting thwacked with even one of my bear claws. Not to mention how much it would hurt getting shoved off the bed or the couch by a heavily antlered Hound.

And speaking of heads, once again the pointy nature of mine proved quite a challenge in the hat modeling department, a situation not improved by the fact that I consider these sessions more in light of a hat eating department. I am particularly inspired by the red and green antlers, the appearance of which causes an impressive outbreak of lunging and baying comical in nature to those not involved in the enterprise. Let no one say that we Wimseys are deficient in Christmas spirit.

It’s been a very pleasant, if warmish, week around here so I took my puppy Pluto to Central Park where he disported himself amongst the sticks, the leaves and my giant feet. At one point I gave one mighty shake of my head and his head was suddenly decorated like a Christmas tree with too many icicles. The ladies were particularly convulsed by the Fu Manchu drool mustache created by my salivary efforts.

And as usual there has been much holiday meeting and greeting of admirers and my seasonal green velvet ruff is proving quite a hit. At least with people. And I am also in the process of making the acquaintance of the men manning the 72^nd Street pedicab stand which means that whether I enter the park at 77^th Street or at 72^nd Street there will be much baying and dragging of humans to conduct pedicab inspections. It makes a nice change from baying and dragging humans to conduct snack shop and pet store inspections.

But I am not the only one who has been busy this week. Apparently there is a huge search underway for something called the Higgs Boson Particle that scientists think will explain how matter was created. I believe their time would be better spent looking for the Higgs Boson Hound whose existence will explain how matter is destroyed. But in any case when you want to find something (except for the bathtub or the nail clippers) a bloodhound is definitely the way to go:

CNN Special Physics Report: The Search for the Higgs Boson Particle

Wolf Blitzer: I’m Wolf Blitzer and this is an exciting CNN special, special report, “The Search for the Higgs Boson Particle”. Apparently the ratings are down for our usual special reports on natural disasters and world carnage so our creative executives came up with a spell binding new concept-- a physics special report!

And replacing my usual co-host Anderson Cooper, who, although he exudes a nerdy charm, knows nothing about physics, is Brian Greene, celebrity physicist, who also exudes a nerdy charm but is supposed to know something about physics. At least on TV-- he comes with the highest physics credentials ever awarded by PBS. Welcome Brian.

Brian Greene: Thank you Wolf.

Wolf Blitzer: Well Brian, here’s my first question: how many people are going to die looking for the Higgs Boson particle and will they be dying in such a way as to display large quantities of blood? And will there be survivors to interview?

Brian Greene: Well Wolf, a lot of people are going to die in the course of searching for this particle. But they will die of old age. Physics, unlike world carnage, is a very slow moving field.

Wolf: Then explain to our viewers why they should care. What is a Higgs Boson and who is going to benefit when the particle is discovered?

Brian: Well Wolf, the Higgs mechanism explains why the W and Z bosons, which mediate weak interaction, are massive, whereas the related photon, which mediates electromagnetism, is massless. The Higgs boson is expected to be in a class of particles known as scalar bosons. Bosons by the way, are particles with integer spin, and scalar bosons have spin 0, It’s quite a thrilling story isn’t it?

Wolf: I’m sorry. Were you saying something? I must have nodded off.

Brian: And as far as who is going to benefit, first there are the ten people in the world who actually understand the Higgs Boson particle. They’re going to be pretty darn excited. Then there are the people who build and operate these giant particle colliders that governments have spent billions of dollars on. And then of course there is me—I’ve been hired to do my next TV show on the particle.

Wolf: That’s very interesting information Brian. Clearly physics has been very, very good to you. But I understand that no one has ever seen this particle and people have been searching for it for a long time. Why do scientists think they will find the particle now?Brian: Because they’ve decided to hire a bloodhound to find it. Apart from their obvious talents at finding things—like where you hid your new gloves for instance--bloodhounds have an affinity for the particle, No one has ever seen the particle but they know it’s there anyway just the way that no one ever sees a bloodhound eating the couch yet they know he is responsible. It’s a very sneaky and innocent looking particle.

Wolf: But isn’t this a very unorthodox approach to take?Brian: Not really Wolf. It’s part of the whole new Unified Hound Theory of cosmology and quantum mechanics. For instance we know that the universe is expanding but we don’t know why. Current thinking is that it’s being dragged apart by a pack of cosmic Hounds, probably those owned by Orion the hunter.

Wolf: But why would the cosmic Hounds be dragging the universe apart?

Brian: Mathematical equations predict that they are trying to get away from Aquarius the water bearer because she once gave them a bath.

Wolf: But aren’t those ancient myths?

Brian: Tsk tsk Wolf. If you watched TV physics you’d know that the concepts of past, present and future are artificial—they all happen concurrently so they are actually quite contemporary. But to answer your question, we can all see Orion and Aquarius but none of us can see the Higgs Boson particle. So which one do you think is real?

Wolf: Very true. And at least looking at Orion doesn’t cost billions of dollars. And I have tried to bathe a Hound so I do see the point. It wasn’t a good experience. Well what else is involved in the Unified Hound Theory?

Brian: Well, entropy for instance—the tendency of the universe to move from order to disorder. We’re pretty sure a force we think of as The Great Hound is behind that one. I mean just think what an unattended Hound can do to your house! And I don’t even want to discuss what we think about the Big Bang Theory, but where hot gasses are involved can a Hound be far behind?

Wolf: Yes perhaps it’s better not to go there—I’ve just had lunch. But how will you know when the Hound has found the particle.

Brian: The same way we know when a Hound has found anything he wants—he’ll bay furiously. All members of the Higgs Boson Hound team are issued with the same noise cancelling headphones used by technicians who work on jet aircraft.

Wolf: And what will the Hound do when he finds the Higgs Boson particle?

Brian: He’ll eat it of course. He’s a Hound.

Well you get the idea.

But to get back to my Christmas headgear, this year in addition to two pairs of antlers and a festive ruff I have also acquired an elf hat. Now this is particularly egregious as I am even less like an elf than like a reindeer.

Ways in Which I am Different Than an Elf

1. Size: Elves are small and whereas I like to think of myself as small when I plant my 125lb posterior onto the lap of a human, I am in actuality a massive Hound and when it’s required (such as when a human is standing between me and the food bowl into which some poached salmon has been placed) I am not above throwing my weight around.

2. Ears: Although elves do have rather large ears in relation to their heads they stick up and come to a point, whereas mine are long and fall luxuriously downwards making them available to be dipped into food and water and to collect miscellaneous organic and inorganic matter from the outdoors for wide distribution indoors. In addition I can flap my ears loudly when I shake my head, causing disruption of even the deepest human sleep, something I doubt would be possible with elf ears.

3. Clothing: Elves like to wear warm clothing whereas I like to shred warm clothing.

4. Activities: Elves construct toys; I deconstruct toys.

5. Attitude: Elves are helpful and devote their lives to helping others. I am unhelpful (obstructive and oppositional are adjectives frequently bandied about in my presence) and prefer to devote my life to helping me.

But most significantly, elves give things to people and I take things away from people. From shoplifting in pet stores to filching contraband from people’s shopping bags and purses, from separating water bottles from their rightful owners to having my way with the closets and laundry bin, I am, like most Hounds, defined by my acquisitive nature. Of course there are exceptions, such as this week when I had an up close and personal encounter with a mound of succulent horse manure, some of it inexplicably ended up perfuming my apartment. It’s important to be generous at Christmas time.

Anyway, another week to enjoy the holiday season in New York and to garner the admiration, snacks and petting from our holiday visitors—will keep you posted.

Until next time,

Wimsey, Hound. Not Elf. Not Reindeer. Not Ruff-ian Hound.

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #240

2011-12-09T12:46:00.024-05:00

Entry #240

December 9, 2011

Hello Everyone, it’s me Wimsey, coming to you from Manhattan’s Upper West Side where it is still a tad too warm to really feel like it’s the holidays yet. Nevertheless this did not prevent my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth from ordering my Christmas “gifts.” The quotes are on account of the fact that two of these “gifts” involve items for me to wear. They are basically Elizabeth’s idea of revenge by couture-- payback for an entire year of disgraceful Hound behavior at the end of the leash, which she is in charge of when we all go out for a walk. I noticed that she had a particularly evil snicker whilst unpacking the box. Maria tut tuts and pretends that she herself would never instigate such affronts to my Houndly dignity but she laughs at them anyway. I am pretty certain that the results of some of these outrages will be on view in upcoming blog posts so you can judge for yourself.

Well it has been a relatively quiet week here—I managed to pull a muscle in my front leg so have been on restricted exercise, but I appear to be on the mend. The silver lining is that all of my injuries, in true Hound fashion, have a way of benefiting me. For example the pimple on my nose—which is pretty much history--was conveniently situated just where the gentle leader would have hit it. So that heinous piece of Hound control equipment has largely been consigned to the dustbin of history. I would prefer it to be consigned to the actual dustbin but its use is still threatened in dangerous conditions—such as when Maria hasn’t had enough coffee or sleep in the morning and has an irrational fear that I might take advantage of the situation. And my pulled muscle means that I can walk at whatever snail’s pace I desire on the way home or pull and drag on the way out and my humans avoid using the leash to (try to) influence the situation. And the day I pulled the muscle Maria slept on the couch because I was occupying the entire queen sized bed and she didn’t want to disturb me. It’s nice to live amongst those who have their priorities straight.

But in spite of this, yesterday was Bath Night. I was apparently exhibiting signs of both Extreme Hound Stink (this occurs when you can smell me in the hallway outside of my apartment) and Extreme Hound Filth (this occurs when your hand is black after petting me) so my humans felt compelled to remedy the situation, however temporarily. And I must say I outdid myself in the non-cooperation department—refusing to get into the tub, then refusing to put more than two feet in the tub, then climbing out of the tub and finally facing the wrong way so Maria had to hover over me in a back breaking position in order to feed me the turkey essential to obtain even a modicum of my cooperation.

And although I had already consumed 6 cups of kibble previously, I packed in another 6 cups (mixed with more turkey and cottage cheese)

in an impressive post- bath display of gluttony. This was augmented by the ingestion of an 18-inch bully stick and my persistent attempts to stick my nose into the tikka masala that my humans were trying to have for dinner. The day’s final tally: 15 cups of kibble, ½ pound of turkey, 1 cup of cottage cheese and one large bully stick (and I would have had the Indian takeout too if not cruelly prevented). My humans feared I was going to explode. Then their thoughts turned from what went in to the joyous anticipation of what was going to come out—and the size and strength of the bags requisite to its disposal. Probably most annoying to them of all was the certainty that I was not going to gain an ounce—the Wimsey metabolism being especially aggravating that way—while they were going to have to be hard at work burning off the caloric excesses of their Wimsey Bath Night indulgences.

In other news, plans continue for Elizabeth’s January birthday jaunt which started out as being 5 days of dogsledding and camping in the Norwegian Arctic, which became 2 days of camping and dogsledding in the Norwegian Arctic which became perhaps an overnight excursion camping and dogsledding in the Norwegian Arctic which became a day dogsledding in the Norwegian Arctic. By the time she is done she will be taking a husky for a walk in a park in the Norwegian Arctic and then sitting in a bar drinking cocktails and looking at the Northern Lights.

All of which might be much safer, especially after our friend Gus The Bloodhound of Alaska’s human weighed in with horror at the thought of turning over a powerful team of huskies to an inexperienced (or non-experienced) musher like Elizabeth. Apparently bribing turkey is of limited utility when attempting to prevent a team of huskies from off roading in pursuit of a moose. She suggested that Elizabeth make sure her accident insurance was up to date.

But then of course, returning to New York City with an injury acquired dog sledding in the Norwegian Arctic would definitely be kind of cool and certainly trump those proudly hobbling around with more mundane injuries such as those acquired skiing in tony Aspen or Telluride. New Yorkers are competitive that way. It’s why when I am out for a walk (particularly on the posh East Side) a common reaction is “I’ve never seen one of him before! He’s wonderful. I want one.” To which my humans invariably reply “No he’s not” and “No you don’t.”

But I think if those people did acquire one of me they would need a whole lot more than cocktails to cope. Which makes me think that there really should be a line of pharmaceuticals like the ones they advertise on TV to assist people with Hounds:

Wimsey Pharmaceuticals, Inc. Product Line

Wipitor

Indications: Wipitor is a cholesterol lowering agent specifically aimed at eliminating the ill effects of the high fat takeout and restaurant foods consumed in excess because cooking in a kitchen with a Hound who raids the refrigerator every time it’s opened, relentlessly counter surfs, shoves you out of the way to stick his nose in your food, eats the garbage and sprawls in the middle of the kitchen floor causing you to trip is not possible.

Warnings: Wipitor may cause muscle weakness resulting in even more injuries than usual when being walked by your Hound. Wipitor may cause liver damage resulting in problems for patients who rely on alcoholic beverages to forget they live with a large, smelly Hound who has taken over their life and their bank account. Do not take Wipitor if your Hound steals the high fat food anyway leaving you malnourished on a diet of steamed vegetables, lettuce and grapefruit.

Wyrtec

Indications: Wyrtec is an allergy medication prescribed for individuals who have difficulty inhaling airborne Hound hair, nebulized drool, pollen from all the vegetation their Hound has tracked in and who are allergic to the miscellaneous dirt, mud and filth attached to their Hound.

Warnings: Tell your doctor if you experience dry mouth not related to the fear of lawsuits caused by something your Hound has done, drowsiness not related to the exhaustion of exercising your Hound for eight hours a day, rashes, hives or itching not related to that plant you had to touch when you picked up your Hound’s poop, swelling of the face, mouth or lips not related to getting bashed by your Hound’s enthusiastic greeting, bruising or bleeding not caused by your Hound’s thwacking you with his paws, whipping you with his tail or sitting on you. Wyrtec will not help you clean your house or your Hound.

Wexium

Indications: Acid reflux and gastrointestinal side effects caused by the stress of trying to eat a meal in the presence of a large, fast, sneaky slavering Hound who can consume your entire plate of food in the time it takes you to reach for the remote.

Warnings: Wexium may cause nausea. Then again so might the remains of the deceased squirrel your Hound just vomited under the dining room table.

Wanax

Indications: Wanax is an anti-anxiety medication prescribed to people who live with Hounds so they don’t have to drink so much. Clinical studies have shown Wanax to be effective in helping patients remain calm after discovering that their Hound has eaten the couch, entertained himself in the closet, opened everyone’s Christmas presents, peed on the heirloom Persian rug, dug up every plant in the garden and engaged in other assorted frequently occurring fun Hound activities.

Warnings: Taking too much Wanax or combining it with alcohol may cause you to fall asleep resulting in having to take more Wanax when you see the effects of a bored, unsupervised Hound.

Wrozac

Indications: Wrozac is prescribed for people suffering from depression due to the effect a Hound has on their bank balances, free time and social relationships.

Warnings: Wrozac should not be used by patients who do not have a life for other reasons. Wrozac may cause sexual dysfunction, anorexia, sleeplessness and suicidal ideation. But then so does living with a Hound.

Wambien

Indications: Wambien is prescribed for people unable to sleep because their Hound shoves them off the bed, runs on their backs, tries to dig a hole in the mattress, engages in high decibel snoring, flaps their ears every time they are about to or have just fallen asleep, licks their toes, has noisy drinks of water in the middle of the night, insists on conducting frequent bed checks to make sure they are still alive and not merely sleeping, engages in nocturnal sessions with their bone and squeaky toy collections or rearranges the bedding in such a way as to create a nest for themselves and a freezing night for you.

Warnings: Wambien can result in morning grogginess causing you to fail to notice that your Hound has helped himself to the contents of someone’s shopping bag or to items being sold by street vendors. Unlike previous sleep medications such as Walcion, Wambien does not cause temporary amnesia so you will not be able to forget all the ways in which your Hound humiliates you.

Wiagra

Indications: Wiagra is prescribed for men who experience impaired sexual function due to the presence of a highly observant, interested and analytical looking Hound in the bedroom, or who find it difficult to function with a Hound who is serenading the proceedings or demanding a belly rub, or who feel inadequate because of the impressive nature of their Hound’s tackle, or who are distracted by the presence of a Hound looming over their head dripping drool or who can’t perform even when they lock the Hound out of the bedroom because of the fear of what he might be getting up to or the fact that even though he is not there they can still smell him.

Warnings: Wiagra will not get you a date. But your Hound can.

Well you get the idea. I could make a fortune selling Hound lifestyle drugs. Anyway, I think I will call it a day—I need to go devise a strategy for disappearing some of my “presents.”

Until next time,

Wimsey, the pharmacist's friend. Also Tanqueray’s.

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #239

2011-12-01T18:38:00.021-05:00

Entry #239

December 2, 2011

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here, coming to you from Manhattan’s Upper West Side where there are Christmas trees aplenty for me to try to lift a leg on and holiday tourists aplenty for me to charm (or to terrify depending on how you feel about a giant baying Hound towing in your direction). My human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have been putting in long hours leafing through catalogues and making their Christmas gift lists, which owing to the fact that my name is the only one on it somewhat mitigates the onerous nature of the operation.

But still, the decision as to whether I would prefer a stuffed gingerbread man or a bear with a Santa hat is never an easy one and is a cause for extensive deliberations. Both my humans’ apartments are littered with unsuccessful gifts (we Wimseys being stuffed toy and bone connoisseurs) and I have no compunction about turning up my considerable nose at a gift that I consider to be substandard. The fact that I never actually tell my humans what the standard is means that they spend even more of their lives trying to please me.

Add to the stuffed toy dilemma the decision about whether to purchase me a festive holiday ruff (and the attendant possibility that the festive holiday ruff will disappear into the regular black and tan ruff, wholly negating the festive effect) and whether an elf’s hat should be obtained should my antlers have been swallowed up by the closet (or by someone else) and deciding exactly how many bully sticks I require for the holidays, etc, etc. and you begin to understand the stresses and strains of the holiday season. But sadly, once again neither of my humans will have a Christmas tree—they both want one, but so do I. The idea that I can have an indoor urinal that is also a plentiful source of excellent sticks not to mention edible things that dangle is quite appealing to me and as a general rule things that are appealing to me have the opposite effect on my humans.

But I digress. This has been quite an exciting week—Elizabeth has been hosting Pluto, the 6-month-old French bulldog while his humans are out of town- which means that I acquired a puppy for the week! And such a small, funny little chap he is. He is Elizabeth’s first experience with a breed that was created solely for the purpose of companionship (rather than a breed created solely for the purpose of doing what it wants and ignoring what you want) and it’s been quite a revelation, although she is very confused by it all:

1. If she is sitting on the couch, Pluto considers it his duty to sit on the couch next to her (not to park himself painfully in her lap and demand to be scratched with both hand while drooling all over her clothes and making them stinky).

2. If she is taking a shower, Pluto, in true self-sacrifice mode, heroically tries to join her (he does not barge in, causing the door to fly open, creating a draft and then leave because he decides that being that close to the shower is potentially a risky proposition, especially when there is no turkey involved).

3. If she is preparing a meal Pluto sits politely in the kitchen in case his assistance is required (he does not relentlessly attempt to take a more active role in the proceedings or to sprawl out and monopolize the kitchen floor causing Elizabeth to trip and dump food in an accessible location).

4. If Pluto wants something he stares and makes polite snorty noises (he does not emit an endless series of high decibel bays causing his humans to run for the aspirin and give him what he wants to shut him up).

5. If Elizabeth is working at the computer Pluto lies contentedly at her feet (he does not push aside the keyboard return in order to replace it with his head or pin her wrists to the keyboard or fling drool on the monitor or go under the desk and unplug all the wires).

6. If Pluto’s attempt to board the bed is rebuffed he lies quietly on the floor by the foot of it (he does not get on the bed anyway, run his drool dripping wrinkles all over her face while snuffling loudly then plop down, shoving her to the edge of the mattress and snore loudly).

7. If Elizabeth needs to remove something from Pluto’s mouth he gives it up willingly (he does not decide to swallow it in a gulp, or take off at a run or take the opportunity to play a rousing game of tug of war in which he has a weight advantage).

8. When Pluto goes outside he immediately runs to the curb and relieves himself (he does not consider that the decision as to where to deposit his waste is a real estate question whose magnitude is only equaled by New Yorkers deciding which small, over priced apartment to buy. And he does not decide that the more inclement or frigid the weather the more time must be spent judiciously inspecting potential sites.).

9. When Pluto hears an “uh uh” or a “No Pluto” he immediately stops what he is doing (he does not decide that these are words of encouragement whose meaning is that he is on to something really good).

10. When Pluto hears “sit” or “down” he does it! (He does not behave as if he is suffering from congenital loss of hearing which can only be miraculously cured by the sound of the refrigerator door opening).

What can I say—Pluto genuinely wants to please humans and I genuinely want humans to please me. But don’t worry, I am working on him. I took him down to the lake where there are always picnic remains to be scavenged or cadged. And he appeared to be an adept pupil. He actually had never been to Central Park before—Riverside Park being closer and his legs being shorter than mine. Nevertheless, he took to it like a park pro, and it turns out that we both share an abiding and discerning interest in sticks.

So I appointed him my stick caddy—my l’homme de stick as it were (he is a French bulldog after all). He fetched sticks and I commandeered them because size does have its privileges and generosity is not in my genes.

Then we staged an epic and prolonged duel for the benefit of a crowd of onlookers: Bloodhound vs. Frenchie, two falls out of three (or perhaps fifty-one out of a hundred). Given the fact that I outweigh Pluto by over a hundred pounds I battled from a prone position—not the least of which was because it was the only way he could actually reach me. He was quite an impressive adversary, especially given that when we first met I terrorized the little fellow with my forceful baying and the power of my olfactory inhalations.

But of course in any combat spectacle of this nature it is the potential for injury that thrills the crowd—and Maria and Elizabeth gave the crowd their money’s worth with long leash entanglements that threatened to send one or both of them to the emergency room. There really is nothing quite as terrifying as being encircled by the leash of a 125 lb., Hound in fierce pursuit of a French Bulldog puppy, at least I assume so given the decibel level of the shrieking going on. Pluto and I of course were fine, Hounds not being terribly keen on activities that lead to discomfort of any kind and Pluto being a promising pupil. Also, given Pluto’s age and how low he is to the ground his body seems to have all the properties of finely honed rubber ball. Needless to say, there are no pictures of the event as my humans selfishly chose to focus their energies on keeping their bones intact rather than recording the match for posterity.

Then I took Pluto to visit my friends at the pedicab stand and some of the drivers who usually hide behind their pedicabs when I show up in full acoustic, tail whipping, butt swinging frenzy actually came out to pet him. And unlike me, he fit on the seat! (Most of the pedicab seats being of too narrow a dimension to accommodate the generous proportions of the Wimsey tush.)

So a good time was had by all this week—especially when Pluto visited me in my little garden and I showed him how to hunt the cat toys (so I could commandeer them) but at least he is of a more appropriate size to play with them, however briefly. I have great hopes for him and the cat flap. The cat not so much.

It is a pleasure to be a role model for a young canine—he already shows a great deal of potential-- particularly in his ability to turn into a concrete lawn ornament when he doesn’t want to go in a particular direction. Sadly for him though, he just get scooped up and tucked under an arm. A problem I don’t appear to have.

Well I will leave it there for this week. I am done with all my antibiotics so there is Grom Gelato in my future. I wonder if Pluto likes gelato? I’m sure his humans would be thrilled to have him acquire my sophisticated palate and the gas that goes with it.

Until next time,

Wimsey, Mentoring Hound

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #238

2011-11-25T12:21:00.021-05:00

Entry #238

November 25, 2011

Hello Everyone, it’s me Wimsey, coming to you from the turkey saturated borough of Manhattan on New York’s Upper West Side where the long weekend is in full swing, replete with Hound loving tourists and some really fine weather. Such was not the case earlier in the week which found my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth slogging through rainy, muddy fields in Central Park trying to prevent yours truly from indulging himself with a refreshing spa treatment mud bath. And all the leaves, which are slippery at the best of times (the lubriciousness of leaves being not generally appreciated unless one is attached to 125 pounds of rollicking Hound), take on an extra accident inducing potential in the rain.

I think my humans should consider themselves lucky that I am not one of those finicky canines who objects to prolonged perambulations merely because of a few raindrops. The sodden ground brings up scent to an amazing degree, substantially enhancing my already impressive hunting prowess. These conditions allowed me to hone in rapidly on a small, unused carton of milk which I was able to liberate from a park bench, puncture with my mighty incisors, squish with my powerful stick snapping jaws and then lap up the milk with my long and frog-like tongue. My mesmerized humans stared in amazement—they did not know that I had the intelligence to carry out such a complex operation but comforted themselves with the thought that I probably did it by accident. Harrumph. They should know by now that we Wimseys, while not the sharpest card in the deck when it comes to such pointless trivialities as “sit” and “stay,” are highly adept when suitably motivated and we can bring considerable neuronal wattage to bear on obtaining the things that are important to us. (Maria still tells the story of one of my predecessors who pushed a chair across a room so she could stand on it to reach a desirable bag of flour).

But speaking of sit and stay (not), Elizabeth finally realized that I have become the master of the following sequence of events:

1. I strike an entertaining or adorable pose.

2. Elizabeth whips out her camera in a stealthy manner.

3. She points the camera in my general direction.

4. She turns on the camera.

5. I hear the characteristic whoosh of the lens being deployed.

6. I decide that you can’t have too many pictures of my tush.

7. Elizabeth directs Maria to wrangle me so as to recreate the scene.

8. I decide to either a) shake b) lick my nose c) bay d) sniff something on the ground e) scratch, f) turn my head sideways g) drop my head below my shoulders (the vulture pose) h) point my nose skywards (the nostril pose) i) roll on the ground j) walk away k) lift my leg.

This behavior engenders much of the yelling, squealing, lamenting and declarations of “I hate you.” that are a regular feature of our walks. Why people think it is a good thing to have an intelligent dog is an enduring mystery to my humans.

But as I mentioned, I have come in for much touristic admiration this week (as well as pleas from bored, overworked salespeople on Broadway to drop by and provide them with some much needed Black Friday entertainment) and my humans have been the subjects of many adjurations as to the importance of feeding me copious quantities of turkey. Meeting and greeting the world is one of the (few) perks of living with a magnificent Hound such as myself and although it is not much compensation for having no life and no bank account, it is at least something.

But then there is a category of people who get up my humans’ nose (everything gets up my nose, but not exactly in the same way) by offering unflattering commentary on my dynamic walking style. This week, as we zoomed along--me in front, nose to the ground, my humans trailing in pursuit—some bozo commented “Looks like he’s in charge.” This is in addition to the perennial “who’s walking who” (hard to say whether it’s the ignorance of grammar or the ignorance of Hounds that annoys my humans most). Sadly, in these circumstances my humans seldom have the time (or the ability) to stop and explain 1) that it’s “who’s walking whom” and 2) that historically the Hound follows its nose, humans follow the Hound and at the end of it all there is plenty of juicy boar to go around. Juicy boar are not found by heeling Hounds. (Cesar Millan has a lot to answer for). We may live in the 21^st century where juicy boar can be obtained shrink wrapped at the supermarket but my genes are firmly lodged way back when when following me was a necessary requirement for obtaining alimentary sustenance. In any case, you would think my harness and 20 foot leash would give people a clue that heeling was perhaps not the object of the exercise.

Now several months ago it was announced that scientists had reconstructed the genes of the bacteria that was responsible for the bubonic plague and for wiping out a third of Europe. Consequently, I think it should be possible to reconstruct the genes of the original bloodhound:

Scientist #1: Eureka! We have successfully reconstructed this ancient bloodhound!

Scientist #2: Didn’t they do that with dinosaurs in Jurassic Park? I don’t think it turned out so well.

Scientist #1: I’m sure this will be different. What could go wrong—he’s so cute!

Scientist #2: Well remember that when you are cleaning up all those puddles—he seems determined to mark the entire laboratory.

Scientist #1: Ah yes, he is just making himself feel at home, covering his territory with familiar scent. Very characteristic. I’m told at the court of Pepin the Short there wasn’t a clean tapestry to be found.

Scientists #2: And speaking of scent, I know medieval hygienic conditions were primitive, but he smells.

Scientist #1: Of course he smells---he’s a bloodhound—but technically speaking, the correct phrase is “he stinks.” But back where he’s from everybody stank so he probably evolved a more pungent stink to get himself noticed. And he could give free rein to stench development unimpeded by the threat of a bath.

Scientist #2: Well apparently he also steals. Wasn’t that the bag with your lunch in it?

Scientist #1: Yes. Tuna. A meat the ancient Hound would have been unfamiliar with yet he ate it anyway. Interesting. He seems to have an innate understanding of what is edible.

Scientists #2: Not necessarily, he’s just eaten your cell phone.

Scientist #1: Perhaps it simulates the crunching bones of his ancient prey. What a fascinating window on history he is!

Scientist #2: Or perhaps he’s just destructive on general principle. Yikes! What’s that noise he’s making. He sounds like a severely displeased walrus! It’s hurting my ears!

Scientist #1: Wow! He is instinctively vocalizing at the exact wavelength capable of producing the maximum amount of auricular pain!

Scientist #2: Well that’s not the only way he causes pain—he just poked me in the crotch and I’m not wearing a cup. And his drool has left a wet stain in a very difficult to explain place.

Scientist #1: I expect he’s just telling us he could use a walk.

Scientist #2: Perhaps that’s why he has started making that hole in the wall.

Scientist #1: Dagobert, come! Come Dagobert! Walkies! Viens ici Dagobert! Allons-y!

Scientist #2: I don’t think he can hear you. Maybe he’s deaf.

Scientist #1: No, I think he probably speaks an archaic French.

Scientist #2: Here, well let’s leash him up while he’s busy shredding today’s paper.

Scientist # 1: Yet another unfamiliar substance that he seems to have taken to immediately! Did you know that historians believe that Pepin the Short was actually called Pepin the Short of Clothing With No Holes and Drool In It and that the king’s Hounds were forbidden access to the royal scriptorium? Now I know why.

Scientist #2: Well they should also have forbidden his entry into the royal gardens—look what he’s done to the dean’s rose bush!

Scientist #1: Such versatility! Perhaps he used this ability to steal edible plants from the peasants. Observing this Hound’s ancient ways is like traveling through time.

Scientist #2: Or like traveling to that gelato stand over there. I very much doubt they had gelato at the court of Pepin the Short. And I have bad news for you. According to Professor Wimsey, one of the world’s foremost experts on bloodhounds, they stink, they drool, they steal, they dig, they shred, they tow, they don’t listen to humans and they have a predilection for being massively destructive. In fact the modern bloodhound is the same as this ancient bloodhound.

Scientist #1: Perhaps I should have stuck to dinosaurs. Or the plague. It’s easier to control.

Well you get the idea. I am what my genes have made me and as bloodhounds have never been overbred in the manner of popular kinds of dogs (I can’t imagine why we are not popular) I am largely unchanged from the animals restricted to the nobility by medieval sumptuary laws and restricted to those lacking common sense by the modern laws of Hound bad behavior. So when I am dragging my humans through the park they imagine that they are elegant, wealthy women on horseback in pursuit of a good meal instead of sloppily dressed poor women (see vet bills) on foot in pursuit of a Hound in pursuit of a milk carton.

But mostly the people we meet are congenial and complimentary (they admire me after all) like the French women who actually bred bloodhounds! Elizabeth was having quite the chat with them, doing well with her French until they asked if I was as nice and well behaved as I seemed. Uh. How to describe my character in French? Especially as, as the time, I was heavily engaged in the chewing of a stick as a way to avoid leaving the park. The experience sent her scurrying to her Larousse for the translations of stubborn, obnoxious, and entitled but her pause made the ladies understand the difficulty and they supplied the missing description with the tactful French equivalent of “he has a lot of personality” and then observed (as my humans frequently do) that I am, in effect, a typical guy. It’s uplifting to know that a guy is a guy in any language and in any species. Or not.

Anyway, that’s pretty much been my week. I finished one of my antibiotics on Thursday and finish the last of the other one on Sunday so there will be a gelato party on Monday as I have been off dairy products for 7 weeks. I will miss demonstrating my prodigious pill hawking expertise though. I enjoyed shattering Maria’s sense of complacency that she had me properly medicated—no hiding of pills in flews, etc. at which I am also adept—by impressively hawking up apparently swallowed pills, sometimes in wide ranging arcs and sometimes multiple times. She’s probably the one who deserves the gelato but I’m the one who is going to get it. Life isn’t fair. Except if you’re Hound.

Hope you all had a turkey laden Thanksgiving.

Until next time,

Wimsey, a Hound for the ages

PS: I noticed the Christmas tree stands on the streets are now up! Nothing imbues my humans with the Christmas spirit like the annual battle to prevent me from using Christmas trees in the way nature intended. Joyeux Noel, y’all.

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #237

2011-11-17T19:04:00.019-05:00

Entry #237

November 18, 2011

Hello everyone, it’s me Wimsey, coming to you from Manhattan’s Upper West Side where the holiday season is off and running, very much like me. Today I ran all the way over to the pedicab stand on 77^th street and put on such a prolonged and vigorous display of acoustical acrobatics that people came running to see what all the ruckus was about. And the more I carry on the more the pedicab drivers encourage me, much to the dismay of my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth to whom the responsibility of preventing me from injuring people and destroying property falls.

It’s no wonder that the head guy wants to hire me--crowds of potential customers materialize to see who is making that hellacious noise, thus enabling him to promote his Wimsey approved pedicab tours of Central Park. My humans would very much like to get a video of my pedicab antics but this would entail being one human short in the Hound control department, which is not an entirely safe proposition when I am in a 125lb state of high excitement.

But getting back to the holiday season, it all started in October actually, when my humans noticed the appearance of pre-Halloween Christmas decorations at the local linen store where they purchase the high thread count sheets with which they cover their furniture under the misguided theory that the sheets will protect what’s underneath from hair, drool and stink whilst keeping me comfy in the style to which I am accustomed. Shortly thereafter, when Elizabeth repaired to Starbucks to acquire the necessary zip for one of our walks (my humans consume caffeine to prepare for the for the walk and alcohol to recover from it ((and to forget the things that I managed to do)) she noticed that the barista was wearing a Santa hat and that Christmas music was entertaining the caffeinating masses.

So what I want to know is who threw Thanksgiving under the bus? And although I love Christmas as much as the next acquisitive, gift budget hogging Hound, does anyone really buy Christmas paraphernalia and gifts when the leaves are just beginning to turn colors? And for people living with Hounds, anything bought in October means just that much more time to expose the goods to the risks and vicissitudes of our exploratory and destructive natures, a risk of which these jump the gun retailers appear blissfully unaware. And of course an extra six weeks of the “The Little Drummer Boy” is not conducive to the maintenance of my humans’ sanity, however tenuous that grip might be considering the prominent role I play in their lives.

I mean humans who are crabby because I’ve created an impressive array of painful orthopedic injuries owing to the fact that I’m constitutionally incapable of gong in the same direction as they are, and whose bruised stomachs and legs are permanently marked with the evidence of my lap sitting propensities and whose descent into madness I’ve accelerated by perpetually hunting and consuming discarded alimentary tidbits on the street and in the park and by

snatching water bottles from inattentive tourists and by sticking my nose into those bags full of goodies that dangle from children’s strollers and by insisting on a daily and loud visit with my pedicab buddies and by refusing to sit-stay, stand-stay or perform a stay of any kind when a photograph is required, and by trying to enter the neighbor’s apartment through the cat flap relentlessly impervious to the physical impossibility of such a feat and by refusing to be helpful by chasing the mice indoors but dislocating shoulders to chase the rats outdoors, and by alerting the whole building and neighborhood to the fact that I am coming out for my walk, etc. etc. etc. I somehow feel that additional exposure to “The Little Drummer Boy” will not have a salubrious effect on my humans’ cheerful nature.

But anyway it seems that here in New York City Thanksgiving has been relegated to the meal you eat to get the energy to do all the Christmas shopping the stores want you to do rather than serving its traditional function of eating too much, drinking too much and fighting with the relatives. Pity. But one really can’t think of Thanksgiving without thinking back-- not only to those brave men and women who came so far for such noble a noble purpose—but also to the Native Americans who helped them survive. Now I am a great admirer of Native Americans and I especially like their colorful names. I mean if I were living back then with the Pilgrims I would probably be called something boring like Josiah but if I were living with the Indians I could have had many exciting names:

The Native American Bloodhound

Flews of Fury

Tows Like Tractor

Dances on Bladder

Sitting Bull on Lap

Breaks Much Wind

Chews Like Beaver

Snores Like Thunder

Head Pointy Like Arrow

Drool Falls Like Rain

Pokes Like Goose

Hurter of Ear Drums

Stealer of Everything

Does What Wants

Nose Like Ice Cube in Small of Back

Digger of Gardens

Smells Like Swamp

Thwacks like Bear

Immovable Like Rock

Sheds Much Hair

Talons Like Eagle

Destroyer of Fences

Nose in Everyone’s Food

Makes People Mad

Eater of Moccasins

Lunges at Squirrels

Doesn’t Care What You Think

And of course, Obnoxious Like Hound

And that’s just for starters. So much more descriptive than being called Wimsey. And it would make Maria’s life so much easier when she explains to people why they don’t want a bloodhound to say, “Here meet my Hound, Destroys Your Possessions and Doesn’t Listen To You.”

But Thanksgiving vs. Christmas is a tough one—Thanksgiving brings turkey (aka, The Magic Meat, due its powerful motivating effect upon canine behavior, occasionally even mine) and Christmas brings presents like extra long bully sticks and expensive stuffed toys that I can destroy in less time than it took to sign the charge slip. I would definitely vote for Thanksgiving if I could persuade my humans to prepare Turkey á la façon Wimsey: An entire, recently deceased bird replete with feathers and stuffed with a delicious array of tasty internal organs, garnished with the contents of the neighbor’s cat’s litter box. Side dishes could include pureed raccoon poop, Brussels sprouts with horse manure (some people think these taste the same), steamed weeds with canine urine dressing and candied rat. And for dessert: the TiVo remote! So far no one’s biting.

But every year around this time my humans give thanks for having me in their lives. Others should be thankful not to. And those of you with regular dogs should be thankful they are not me!

Anyway, the Upper West Side of Manhattan has become a hotbed of TV and movie filming—the TV show Person of Interest for instance seems to have moved into the neighborhood permanently. But on this afternoon’s walk we saw an even larger and more impressive film crew. The posted signs said the filming was for something called Fiona’s Tale. Now this puzzled Maria, as she is always very well informed about new films and TV shows and had never heard of this one, which clearly was not some small independent production. A quick consultation with her Blackberry revealed that Fiona’s Tale is the name being used by the new Spiderman movie to discourage fan attention! But this made me think about an entirely different and better movie:

IMDb Plot Summary: Houndman

Peter Parker, a nerdy young man is visiting the home of a mad scientist friend of his and is about to be bitten by a radioactive, mutant spider when his friend’s radioactive and mutant Hound steps on the spider and crushes it. The Hound then bites Peter instead because Peter is standing too close to the Hound’s stuffed dog.

Peter doesn’t think much about it except that the Hound could use a visit from Cesar Millan, until he starts acquiring strange powers. First, he develops an intensely acute sense of smell which enables him to identify every person he meets individually and to acquire intimate knowledge about the state of their personal hygiene. He finds himself saying “Dude, you’ve gotta change that underwear” with a frequency that is inimical to a successful social life. He also finds he can tell when people are around by their smell even if he can’t see them and he can smell their emotions and whether they are telling the truth. While this is very useful for tracking villains, especially the ones not dressed in gaudy costumes with elaborate makeup, and for knowing when they are hiding in that dark alley ready to attack, it is less useful when you want to believe the woman who tells you that you were wonderful. Peter also finds that these new talents enable him to know when something unfortunate is about to happen--like someone is about eat some of his French Fries—the hackles on his neck stand up. He calls it this Houndy-sense.

Peter also finds that he is suddenly very strong and can jump very high, particularly onto kitchen countertops. He finds himself eyeing people’s shoes and the neighbor’s cat with new interest and lifting his leg when he uses the toilet. Also he notices that when he is sitting in a restaurant, all he has to do is look at another diner for that person to give him their meal. This is useful because somehow everyone else’s food looks more desirable than his own. Fortunately he avoids getting fat because of his new hobby of chasing squirrels in the park. And several times during the day his body shuts down entirely and he must recharge by taking prolonged and restful naps from which he can only be revived by the smell of someone else’s food, the neighbor’s cat or the rattle of keys. On the downside he loses his license for driving with his head sticking out of the window.

Moreover, Peter, formerly a nerd, now has a new personality and refuses to believe that he cannot have anything he wants. He demands a raise from his boss and sweeps Mary Jane (is anyone called this anymore?) the girl he likes off her feet, literally and figuratively, with his new demanding and determined persona. Everything becomes so easy and rewarding he is amazed he never thought of acting like this before. “If you don’t ask, you don’t get” becomes his watchwords and “If you don’t get, take.”

Peter originally intended to use his powers to fight the crime wave caused by the endless number of mad scientist experiments gone awry but then decided that exerting himself on behalf of others was stupid. He was having way too much fun being him. They don’t call him Houndman for nothing.

Well you get the idea. Perhaps if I run into the Spiderman director I can pitch my film. They can put up signs calling it Wimsey’s Tail.

I think I will leave it here for this week. Have a happy Thanksgiving and don’t forget to thank your Hound who won’t really care unless the thanks is accompanies by a generous hunk of turkey.

Until next time,

Wimsey, Snatches Turkey Very Fast