Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 9
March 23, 2007

Hello everyone. It’s me Wimsey. Well it’s been quite a week here in New York—we had a delightful (for me) little icy snowstorm that made my humans wish they had gone ahead and purchased those mountaineering crampons! And then in response to my last post, my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have been all “Gadzooks, Wimsey would you like to go for a walk?” and “Forsooth Your Houndship, I perceive that the dinner bowl hath arrived” and “Wimsey, you are getting your muddy paws all over my new kirtle” and “Would Sir care for a joust with yon’ Bruno the Rottweiler?” etc. etc. etc. Very funny ladies.

Of course Maria and Elizabeth are completely baffled about why I know so much about the Middle Ages (“How come Wimsey knows what a bilaut is and we don’t?”), especially since interest in the past is not generally a strong suit of those who live in New York. (I have noticed that New Yorkers like to tear down any buildings even vaguely old and put up shiny new ones!). Now in spite of the fact that my humans routinely belittle my intellectual abilities (being thought intellectually challenged has its advantages, as in “Oh, we don’t bother teaching Wimsey not to put his nose in the food, he’s not very bright, you know. He wouldn’t understand.”) when it comes to all things Hound—including my distinguished lineage-- I am a veritable Einstein. Who else has perfected the art of detecting hidden stashes of dirty underwear or exciting piles of recyclables. I am also a master of the strategic use of drool—a particularly valuable skill when I want to call a halt to human activities that require the use of optical surfaces such as eyeglasses or computers (I permit the use of televisions provided I am enthroned in a lap and being scratched)—humans can’t do what they can’t see. Did you know that drool has the enviable property of changing the focal point of a lens, thus making any drool coated surface blurry and useless? Then humans are once again free to focus all their attention on me, where it belongs.

In addition to being an expert on The Optics of Drool, I am also well versed in the application of Newton’s Laws of Motion (of a Hound). My personal favorite is of course Newton’s wildly popular Second Law which states: Net Force equals Mass times Acceleration. This means that if you let me get a running start on my 30 foot leash the net force on your arm will result in a visit to the emergency room. And who can forget Newton’s delightful First Law which states “ a body will remain on the couch until I shove it off” (by the way, it is a myth that Newton discovered gravity when he observed an apple falling from a tree—it was really his bloodhound falling off the couch during a particularly exciting nap that gave him the idea). And of course Newton’s Third Law explains why Elizabeth can never get me off of her lap as every lap ejecting action by her is met by an equal and opposite lap retaining reaction by me!

It has also always been my theory that Newton developed The Calculus whilst attempting to control a charging bloodhound: “Gee I wonder whether it is mathematically possible to describe the rate of change of this Great Hound’s ability to cover ground?”—and presto out popped the first derivative (humans call this velocity, bloodhounds call this fun). Later, after nearly having his arm torn off when his bloodhound charged after a succulent animal, he thought (when he was again capable of thought) “Well I wonder if it is mathematically possible to describe the rate of change of the beast’s velocity when chasing a succulent animal?”—and voila we have the second (and arm dislocating) derivative-- acceleration.

Of course there are other laws of physics which are equally enjoyable, one of my personal favorites being the Body Slamming Equation. This equation states that the amount of damage that I will do to you (kinetic energy) is equal to one half my formidable mass times the velocity with which I am charging—squared! It is because the damage is so dependent on my speed at impact that I am banished to the Tribute Couch for all greeting activities. When I remember. Which, being intellectually challenged, is not that often. Anyway, I guess the take home lesson here is that an accelerating bloodhound is a dangerous bloodhound (yes, even though I do not possess a macho name like my father Stetson or an intimidating breed type like Bruno the Rottweiler, I too sometimes get to be a dangerous character: “ Look there’s Wimsey the Dangerous Accelerating Bloodhound! Run!!!!!”). It is such a shame that the applications to which humans put physics are often tremendously boring-does anyone really care at which point an object will reach the top of a parabolic arc—unless of course they are trying to prevent its interception by a large, determined Hound? I must say that the applications to which we Hounds apply the laws of physics are infinitely more entertaining. Indeed they govern the majority of our activities. We can calculate, for instance, the precise speed of head rotation required to fling drool in someone’s face with enormous accuracy or the precise angle at which to apply our body mass in order to immobilize a small human of known height and weight. I am sure that Newton, and indeed all physicists, must have closely studied The Bloodhound. After all, how else could they know what we know.

But I digress. I was discussing my week, which included not only St. Patrick’s Day, but also my birthday. (Thanks, by the way to all my friends from around the world for their kind wishes and cards!) To kick off the celebrations, I went for pleasant walk in Central Park with Elizabeth (Maria claimed that the preparation of my birthday cake was incompatible with my presence. Of course, Elizabeth claims that all human activities are incompatible with my presence. “Wimsey is incompatible with life as we know it” is how I think she puts it. Now I do agree that it is rather challenging to get anything done when I am either sitting on you or snuffling and tasting the objects in your hand (it is not for nothing that the Wimsey motto is “If you have it, I want it.”). Or flinging drool. Or stealing your underpants, etc. etc. etc. But it’s all part of the fun of living with a bloodhound. It is an enduring mystery to me as to why there are not more of us about.

Anyway, after closely inspecting my face in the mirror to see if my wrinkles have finally deepened—I wonder if plastic surgeons know how to create more of them—it’s never too early to think about having a little work done, especially here in image conscious New York (“Look there’s Wimsey, he’s looking awfully smooth, poor chap.” “I know and he’s looking rather thin too, don’t you think. I know it is shallow of me, but I just can’t abide the sight of a smooth, lithe bloodhound. It’s just so unaesthetic. Especially when they can do such wonderful things these days”). Well on the subject of trying to gain weight, I must say that Nanook’s cream cake was enormously helpful as well as being delicious—a perfect 10 on the Wimsey Drool Production Index, if I may say so (my humans dread the perfect 10). Not that I would have anything to do with the cake part of course. I just amused myself by methodically denuding the entire cake of all its whipped cream, much to the consternation of my humans. Being a finicky eater is right up there with being intellectually challenged in the manipulation of humans department. (“Oh no, Wimsey’s not eating! Quick, run and get him a pizza—he likes those.”).

Anyway, the birthday was great—whipped cream, pizza, toys cards from friends and a long session of jamming my elbows into Elizabeth’s sensitive bits while being scratched: Maria: “Don’t shriek so much Elizabeth! It’s Wimsey’s birthday and after all he can’t help doing silly things—he’s not very bright you know.”

Until next time,

Wimsey

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 8
March 16, 2007

Hello Everyone! Wimsey here. Or maybe I should say O’Wimsey, as St. Patrick’s Day is once more upon us. For anyone reading this who does not live in New York City, it really is true that on St. Patrick’s Day everyone is Irish (even bloodhounds) which means that everyone is entitled to celebrate, which they do. A lot. And then some. And then some more. In short, it is a very festive day. Whilst there is no serious talk of dyeing me green this year, I have informed my human Maria that I will be wearing my elegant green sequined cravat in honor of the occasion. I make a very handsome Irishhound if I do say so myself. And of course Maria’s friend Elizabeth is already looking forward to the nutrition-enhancing drool with which I intend to fortify her St. Patty’s day libations.

Now however, laudable St, Patrick was—protecting bloodhounds from snakes and all that, I want to propose that November 3rd--St. Hubert’s Day-- should also be a holiday. For those of you who do not actually spend their evenings curled up with “The History of The Bloodhound,” you may not be aware of this, but my ancestors were brought from the Holy Land during the Crusades and deposited at the Monastery of St. Hubert in the Forest of the Ardennes. This was apparently a wholly appropriate maneuver as St. Hubert is the patron saint of hunters. But can you just imagine the shock and awe (not to mention mess) that my relatives must have caused:


Abbott: What on earth are they?

Crusader: We don’t know, actually. We stole them from the Paynim on general principle. We were hoping that the learned monks here could figure it out.

Abbott: Did they lose a lot of weight on the way over or something? They seem excessively baggy.

Crusader: No, I think they come like that. We don’t exactly know why anyone would want something that looks that way, but you know, these Paynim are a strange lot.

Abbott: Gadzooks! The beast seems to have flung some strange fluid onto my cassock.

Crusader: Ooops, I forgot to warn you about that. They seem to do it quite a lot. Why the Sieur de Baskerville alone has had three embroidered silk bilauts ruined. He was mighty peeved, I can tell you! But then the beasts found a juicy boar, so we decided that the fluid was a magic embrocation of sorts. I must say, the stuff does rather get into everything. We found that only a mounted knight in full body armor is truly protected. But then we started worrying about rust factor you know. And the horses weren’t happy.

Abbott: And what is that strange odor?

Crusader: That’s them again, I’m afraid. They are a rather pungent lot. They also tend to get a bit loud when riled up.

Abbott: My son, while we monks of St. Hubert are always appreciative of a small tribute or two, the munificence of your gift of these beasts overwhelms us. We find that this gift is simply too generous to be compatible with our humble monastic lifestyle.

Crusader: Well, we thought you might see it like that. The thing is, we think we can scam the King of France into thinking that they are rare and precious—think of the privileges that we could extort, er, I mean the gratitude that would come our way—if you were the only source of supply of these desirable animals. Here’s the deal: we heroic knights will take care of the demand side of things—you know, creating the right buzz at Court and all that, while you monks take care of actually raising a supply of the creatures.

Abbott: That is asking a lot my son. However, who are we humble monks to deny the King of France a prize that he so richly deserves. Might I suggest, however, that you alert the royal tailors to lay in vast quantities of additional cloth. I have a feeling His Majesty may be needing it.


And of course, the rest, as they say is history. The French king took the bait hook, line, and drool and bloodhounds became the ne plus ultra of medieval chic:


Duke of Burgundy: I hear the French king has acquired a strange new animal. I must have one too.

Conte d’Anjou: I don’t know if that is wise your grace. I hear they are loud, smelly and cover everything within a several cubits radius in a strange, sticky humour. Also, the monks of St. Hubert are charging a fortune for them and they are refusing to sell them at all unless you have connections.

Duke of Burgundy: If the French King has one then the Duke of Burgundy must have one. Also, the Duchess has been nagging me about it. Apparently she thinks they’re sweet. She also has it on good authority from the Queen’s bedchamber that Her Majesty’s youthful appearance is due to smearing the animal’s secretions on her face. Anyway, even the Conte d’Artois has one.

Conte d’Anjou: Yes, but that was only because he won it in a poker game from the Duke of the Aquitaine.


And so the fact that my kind could only be owned at the highest echelons of society, were hideously expensive to buy and extraordinarily inconvenient to keep, made us the acme of fashion (and people wonder why I think humans are foolish). And in those days, it wasn’t even necessary to dress up in little pink clothes either! Sometimes, the old ways are best.

Well, I don’t like to brag, but because of the Bloodhound, (or the Chien de St. Hubert as we came to be called—I am sure the Abbott was thrilled), the good Monks of St. Hubert prospered and built many fine buildings to inspire the faithful, the textile trade and consequently the entire economy flourished, people far and wide were well fed because of the increased availability of juicy boar, and the Queen of France looked young.

Well, that’s just where things stood when William the Conqueror had the brilliant idea of foisting us upon the English. It is my belief that the sight of us confused the Anglo Saxon armies (“Forsooth, what the hell is that!!!) and that bloodhounds are responsible in large measure for Duke William’s victory at the Battle of Hastings. From there, of course we jumped the pond (baying our way across the Atlantic, no doubt) to America where we established ourselves in great style. And now we hunt juicy boar in Central Park.

But I digress. We were speaking of holidays. Think of all the extra fun a new holiday would engender! On St. Hubert’s Day people could drink lots of beer, fling drool, bay and engage in the wearin o’ the black and tan (a lot more tasteful and flattering a color than green, I think). But why stop there. In addition to St. Hubert’s Day, I believe that our annual roster of holidays should include National Bloodhound Appreciation Day, take a Bloodhound to Work Day and Walk a Bloodhound for Six Hours Day. Also, a parade up Fifth Avenue would not be amiss. (“Grand Marshall Wimsey is leading the Band of Baying Bloodhounds on a nine hour march through the boroughs of New York”). As bloodhounds are actually responsible for the Norman Conquest, and, as a consequence, much of Western Civilization, I hardly think it too much to ask.

But of course the most exciting holiday (from my point of view at least) is the fact that March 19th is my birthday! Well, on hearing about the date of my birth it was all “Did you know that Wimsey was a Pisces when you agreed to have him?” and “Was that really wise; Pisces are so difficult; they have a very artistic temperament that is so hard to deal with” and “Is that why Wimsey sings so loudly?” etc., etc., etc. But I don’t care (do I ever?)-- I will finally be three and I won’t have to cope with the human fear that I am going to get even bigger. On the other hand, it has become apparent to me that show judges like a rather meaty looking bloodhound, so in the spirit of cooperation for which I am well known, I have instructed Maria to make me the same cream cake that that famous gourmand Nanook had for his birthday. Whatever made him that big, I want it too! (“If Nanook the Newfy has it, then Wimsey the Bloodhound must have it”—some things are timeless, don’t you think. Although I must say, I think I will pass on all Nanook’s bath paraphernalia. ((As an aside, Maria and Elizabeth have a plan to bath me in Elizabeth’s bath tub. Stay tuned for that one)).

Well, that’s all for this week. The juicy boar of Central Park await. I hope you enjoyed the history lesson. We Wimseys are very illustrious you know.

Until next week,

Wimsey

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 7
March 9, 2007

Hello everyone. It’s me, Wimsey. Well, I am here to tell you that sometimes it is just so much fun being me that it should be illegal! I don’t know—can they outlaw me like they do some of the other breeds?

“Your Honor we move to prohibit The Bloodhound in the County of New York—he is just having way too much fun and, as a consequence, causing a public nuisance and a breach of the peace. The endlessly fun seeking, attention getting and single mindedly disruptive Bloodhound does, we respectfully submit, contribute to the erosion of the tax base of our heretofore fiscally sound Metropolis. We declare that The Bloodhound willfully impairs, impedes and hampers all manner of economic activity. Previously upright and tax paying citizens cease to engage in income (and therefore tax) producing activities whilst they ogle, fondle and generally expend precious tax generating time upon the non-tax generating Bloodhound. Your Honor, it is of the utmost concern to us that The Bloodhound has even managed to strike at the very heart of this City’s fiscal foundation, to wit, Wall Street. We are grieved and alarmed to report that the enormous tax revenue—to which we all looked so forward every year-- from a formerly respected Wall Street stock analyst has completely vanished in the face of the competing charms of clickering the aforementioned Bloodhound. We cannot, in good conscience, permit the integrity of the financial markets (and our tax base) to be undermined by the pernicious influence of The Bloodhound. We therefore move for his entire banishment, body, drool and all from the precincts of our normally industrious and tax producing polis. We find that the temptation to fiscally unsound fun is simply far too great to permit of his continued existence amongst us.”

Hmm..breed specific legislation (isn’t being a breedist politically incorrect?)—all the more reason for me to seriously consider a run for Bloodhound in Chief! (Bizzy would make a charming First Bloodhound, don’t you think)?

Anyway, it is only due to my famously good temperament that I am in such a good mood. This week it was my human Maria who was sick. Can humans really be this susceptible to microbial invasion or is this yet another misguided attempt to modify my behavior? I mean this week it was all ‘Oh Wimsey, stop bouncing up and down on my stomach like that it makes me throw up” and such. Of course the risk of a human throwing up is absolutely no deterrent to me-- human effluvia of all sorts is deliciously fragrant and often quite tasty. But putting my sensuous nature aside, being a bloodhound is just plain fun. When I go out for a walk there are such squeals of “How beautiful!” and “How cute!" and “How adorable!” And of course Maria and Elizabeth (a friend of hers, whose current canine activities are apparently an enduring source of disappointment to the city’s tax authorities) know that there is not the remotest possibility that these comments are directed at them. Last year, even Joan Rivers-- that queen of red carpet critique-- stopped traffic on Park Avenue pointed in my direction and loudly proclaimed: “Fabulous! Fabulous! Fabulous!” Unless I am very much mistaken, I don’t think it was Elizabeth’s baggy, drool covered ensemble that attracted her admiration. And this week an obviously astute upper west side young man eyeballed me, gestured grandly to his friends and declared resoundingly and repeatedly “Now that is Fashion! (So I guess I can relax about black and tan going out of style any time soon). And of course it was also quite a lot of fun last weekend when Maria nipped into Starbucks to get us all some coffee and emerged to find Elizabeth and I surrounded by fascinated men. And trust me; it wasn’t Elizabeth who was fascinating them. I am worried that my humans are going to develop a complex:

Dr. Wimsey: So tell me, Maria, when did you start to have these feelings that people were ignoring you?
Maria: When I got you.
Dr. Wimsey: Well, yes, I can see how that could happen. I am really so much more exciting and interesting than you are. You are very perceptive. Ah, I see our 45 minute hour is up. You can leave my $200 fee with my receptionist, Elizabeth --she used to be a famous stock analyst you know, such a sad case!

Anyway, when we walk down the street no one yells out Maria or Elizabeth, only Wimsey. No wonder humans are all in therapy (except sad to say, mine, who I believe would benefit enormously by working through the fact that they will always exist in my large, hound shaped shadow).

In addition to spending lots of time in therapy, humans here in New York City are famous for spending the GDP of entire nations on gym memberships, Pilates and yoga classes, diet books, exercise equipment, etc. But really, what they actually need is a bloodhound. Now in addition to getting a lot of public flak about the existence of my testicles poor Maria is often assailed by people questioning my suitability for life in New York (really of course, they should question her sanity, but that is a whole other issue). Little do these interlocutors realize that they are addressing The Wimsey Total Mind-Body Fitness System. Kind of like a canine Bowflex, I do it all.

The Wimsey Way to Total Mind-Body Fitness rests on three sound principles: physical health, diet and hygiene and mental health. All backed up by an astonishingly simple, yet effective set of incentives.

First, the Wimsey System builds endurance: my humans quickly learn that if they have any hope of their possessions remaining intact, they will walk me for as many hours as they can stand up (I, of course, being a well bred bloodhound, can walk indefinitely). And the beauty of it is that the effects of the walks are never cumulative — each day is a new day-- the Wimsey odometer resets to zero each morning and the walking must begin all over again. But these walks do not just breed endurance. No, they are also aerobic since at random intervals I take off after some attractive odor and the only way to stay upright is to run along with me! Never underestimate the fear of humiliation of being dragged behind a conspicuously baying bloodhound!

Next, let us discuss the upper body, particularly core strength. In addition to my prowess at marching and charging, I also posses a powerful tow. Again, in order to maintain an upright posture, leash holders must engage the abdominals inwards and upwards whilst mobilizing the arms and entire upper torso. For really, really long periods of time. It’s six pack abs the Wimsey Way. It is such a shame that gyms simply cannot provide the appropriate physical penalties for failure to perform. I guess they feel that threatening to hurt their clients and shred their possessions would not be revenue enhancing—also possibly illegal--, but let me tell you, it is highly motivating.

Now let us proceed to the frequently neglected issue of hygiene. I have previously discussed how I effortlessly trained the slobby Elizabeth to be neat, but few people know me in my equally important guise as the Bath Inspector. As a committed trainer I personally, supervise the ablutions of the humans I have caused to be drenched in sweat. Using my keen nose I instantly detect any unwashed spots and alert the human to their presence by licking them. In addition, I conduct spot quality control checks throughout the bath process to make sure the human is (or was) completely clean. I also test the water with my muzzle at regular intervals and dispense some moisturizing drool into it. And after the bath, one should not even think about getting away with wearing a used t-shirt or second day underwear. My nose instantly attaches to the delicious odor emanating thereof, conspicuously calling attention to the offending garment—shame can be such a powerful weapon in modifying human behavior! And much faster than a clicker. And diet is even easier to modify than hygiene. Food becomes remarkably unappetizing to humans when mixed with bloodhound secretions.

Finally, we must discuss the mental health portion of my program. Let me just say, that The Wimsey System admits of no negativity. The other day, Elizabeth was sitting on the couch upbraiding me for some perceived (and no doubt wholly imaginary) failure so I calmly stuck my tongue in her mouth. At this she instantly ceased speaking, no doubt reminded of the potentially pernicious (if not to say infective) nature of vocalizing negative thoughts.

And of course throughout the entire day, I keep my humans well hydrated. By dint of sticking my entire muzzle and ears into my water bowl I find I can transport quite a quantity of water to deposit on my humans. My thoughtful actions keep them cool and moist throughout the day. An excellent use of the many facial folds and wrinkles for which we bloodhounds are justifiably famous.

Anyway, I am looking into promoting The Wimsey Total Mind-Body Fitness System on the Home Shopping Network. Elizabeth says I need the taxable income.

Until next time,

Wimsey

Wimsey's Blog: A Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Wimsey’s Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound


January 26, 2007: New York City
Entry 1

Hi there! It’s me, Wimsey, the gi-normormous upper west side bloodhound and this is my first blog—or bloodhound log, as I am sure the word was intended to mean.

Well, things are really heating up here in my little upper west side canine kingdom. I am going to be shown at the Westminster Kennel Club dog show and my human, Maria, and a friend of hers called Elizabeth are both in quite a dither about getting me ready. I am going to be judged along with a huge class of 15 other bloodhounds to see which one of us is best. Personally, it doesn’t matter what the judges say, I know who is best, and that would be me. Consequently, I have put less than my full degree of attention (if I can be said to have any degree of attention at all) into these frenzied preparations. Apparently I am supposed to trot up and down the ring. Well, I don’t like trotting much—I think the “pace” is a much nicer gait (pacing is where I move forward with the front and rear leg on the same side of my body, instead of the opposite sides as in a trot) and it gives me a nice solid lumbering gait, which causes my humans to shriek “he’s pacing, he’s pacing!!!” repeatedly. Well of course I am pacing, I like to do it and I am a big believer in always doing the things I like to do. Anyway, the “cure” for all this heinous pacing is apparently to put poles in my way—these incredibly annoying things my humans refer to as cavalettis—which unfortunately forces me to trot. The good news is after the humans are done yelling “trot Wimsey, trot” at me, they feed me pieces of turkey.

And then I go back to pacing.

It’s all colossal good fun. Humans are supposed to be so smart; you would have thought that they would have learned long ago that trying to get me to do anything that I don’t want to do is pretty well impossible. In any case, I thought it would have been obvious that if I started trotting all the time it would be the end of all the turkey feeding. I find it pretty amazing that human managed to take over the planet. Maybe there is a secret group of really smart ones.

Anyway, when they are done with the trotting thing, they then attempt to get me to stack. Now in my opinion, the only things that should be stacked are inanimate objects like cans of dog food and such. Definitely not an actual dog. Well, stacking me involves trying to get me to stand still (right) and stay in this really weird position with my legs pulled out behind me. They say it shows off my top line. I say it is perfectly obvious that I have a straight back without getting into some anatomically convoluted position. Well, of course as soon as they put my feet in the “stacked” position, I move them back into the “Wimsey” position. This elicits wails of “he’s not stacking!” Very observant there, ladies. May I suggest working with cans of dog food.

Now because of my lack of cooperation in the show preparation area, this Sunday I am apparently going to be carted off to my show handler’s house in New Jersey so she can see just how difficult I am being. Diane is a famous handler and a formidable lady, and I am busy deciding whether it would be more fun to behave perfectly just to tease Maria and Elizabeth or whether I should make her crazy too. Stay tuned…

All of this does not imply, by the way, that I in any way object to showing. Being in a ring with all eyes and attention focused on me—what could be better or more appropriate. Although I must say that at first the judge squeezing my testicles did give me pause, but now I have come to enjoy this admiration and attention being paid to one of my favorite parts of my anatomy. After all, no one really stops my humans on the street and squeals “Oh what a lovely dog—he’s got such beautiful testicles!” (although from to time some construction worker type guys do admire their generous proportions and prominence. Eat your hearts out, guys). And no one says “Oooh, Wimsey, let me give your testicles a nice scratch, although they seem to be very enthusiastic about scratching the rest of me. And of course in New York City it is apparently politically incorrect to have a dog with testicles at all. Poor Maria is always having to deal with people recoiling in horror screeching: “That dog has testicles!! Why does that dog have testicles!?” Now, deficient as my education has been, it has always been my impression that the possession of testicles is rather part and parcel of being a male mammal, so I never understood what all the fuss was about (especially as the judges seem to find them so attractive). In any case, all this hooha means my humans are always on the defensive to justify this testicular presence as I simply can’t be shown without the usual complement. Chalk up another plus for the show ring! And of course, testicles, in addition to being aesthetically pleasing, are very useful and would come in rather handy should I ever be bred (a concept of which I highly approve, by the way). This potential breeding activity is a constant source of discussion between Maria and Elizabeth: Maria being favorable to the idea and Elizabeth opining that one Wimsey is more than sufficient and that unleashing a litter of additional Wimseys is simply unfair to the human race. “A little Wimsey goes a long way” she always says as she heads for the gin bottle after a session with me. So the long and the short of it is that judicial admiration to my nether parts has turned out to be a rather pleasant perk of the show ring.

However, the ring action is only one part of the fun of Westminster. I get to stand next to my human while the general public make a huge fuss over me and she has to smile and agree with them about what a wonderful dog I am (one day her nose is going to be as long as mine, although never as majestic and powerful)—conveniently forgetting the black eye I gave her a few weeks ago during a wrestling match as well as various other sundry failings, such as eating her chair cushions. Did I mention, by the way, that I am an avid wrestler? Interspecies wrestling is one of my very favorite activities and the best thing is, that when I want to wrestle, wrestling happens since any attempts to stop me from wrestling really just results in more wrestling—don’t quite think the humans have figured that out yet. Anyway, I am quite proficient at it too as I have come to use my newly expanded full adult size. I weigh a splendid 126 pounds (that’s over 57 kilos for those of you in the rest of the world and 9 stone for the quaint residents of the British Isles). I had a most successful bout over Thanksgiving when Elizabeth was caring for me while Maria was out of town. Elizabeth cooked a delicious turkey and after partaking of a large bowl of turkey, rice and yams I was feeling pretty frisky. Well, Elizabeth had this totally adorable guest—one of the smallest adult humans I have ever laid eyes on and I decided to wrestle her while she was attempting to drink her pre-prandial cocktail. Of course I first investigated the cocktail thoroughly—it was called a caipirnha, by the way—didn’t much care for it myself, I am much more interested in sticking my tongue and a good bit of drool into a delicious glass of red wine amid shrieks of “Eeekk! Eeeek! Wimsey’s put his tongue in my wine again!” (I am after all named Wimsey after Lord Peter Wimsey who was a noted oeneophile, so I don’t understand why people are so surprised by my love of the grape). Anyway, the Thanksgiving bout was hugely entertaining—cocktail flying in all directions, much squealing by the little human (they tell me she is actually a vet, so she should be used to wrestling large determined beasts like myself) and finally I simply sat on her and immobilized her completely with my huge and shapely paws. Elizabeth had to come to her rescue and the little human understandably declined my offer of two falls out of three. Unfortunately I was exiled to my crate (otherwise known as going to jail) for the actual eating of the meal, but it was well worth it. One of my finest bouts.

Well, I think I will sign off now. My human is due home at any moment and she hates when I use the computer. You’d think all the drool on the keyboard would be a dead give away.


Talk to you again soon,

Wimsey

PS: you can also read about me at www.wordsofwimsey.com