Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #327

 

Entry #327

December 20, 2013

Hello Everyone, it’s me, Wimsey, wishing you a Merry Christmas and all the joys of this festive season from here on the Upper West Side of Manhattan where I am the Chief Christmas Hound in Residence.  I also hope that you are spared any Grinchiness like that of my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth—the former complains about Rockefeller Center Christmas tree rubber necking tourists and the latter hurls shoes at the TV and screams at George Baily to get on that train out of Bedford Falls. 

But my humans do redeem themselves where I am concerned—Maria is investigating a wide variety of expensive and delectable mystery meats from the gourmet food store that might be pleasing to the Wimsey Holiday Palate and Elizabeth has been taking me on long perambulations and has been demonstrating an even heavier hand than usual with the turkey and snacks.

And needless to say, it is starting to look a lot like Christmas.  How you ask?

My humans get these tense and determined expressions on their faces when we walk through the alleys of fir trees that line many of our streets.

Tourists, who are normally Hound loving become even more so in the presence of a Giant Hound wearing a green velvet seasonal ruff with bells on it.

My humans believe that people on the street are gullible enough to mistake me for a reindeer or an elf.

Someone has decorated the trees on 73^rd street to look like candy canes creating yet another set of trees upon which I am not supposed to lift a leg.

The Christmas Fair has magically appeared for my shopping and concertizing pleasure.

Snow has arrived and with it the tantalizing prospect of sending my humans on a holiday trip to the Emergency Room.

The lobby of Elizabeth’s building is so dense with delivered packages that it looks (as Maria observed) as if a UPS truck exploded.

I get to do whatever I want and to have whatever I ask for.  (That’s not technically a sign of Christmas since this is always the case, but it never hurts to point it out).

 

Well it’s been a wonderful week around here in spite of the afore-mentioned attacks of human Grinchiness.  We had some snow and Elizabeth and I have been taking picture postcard beautiful walks in Central Park in the afternoons.  I greatly enjoy tracking all the human and canine footprints back and forth over hill and dale which, in a less beautiful setting, would make Elizabeth wish that she was carrying a flask of gin instead of my water.  Fortunately the sentiments of the season call for peace on earth and goodwill towards Hounds so back and forth we pointlessly (at least to her) go.  I also greatly enjoy rolling around in the white stuff, especially when I am wearing a coat as this rather defeats its purpose.

But of course into every life a little rain must fall and in my case Santa is bringing me my own personal lump of coal in the form of an expensive, new winter coat from Chilly Dog in Canada.  My humans have gotten tired of wrestling my legs into the armholes of my current selection of coats (and all the turkey feeding required thereof) and the Chilly Dog coat has a flap that goes under the belly and is secured with clasps on top of the coat. Elizabeth, my Keeper of the Closet, has been in urgent discussions with the company as to my majestic proportions, my deep chest (necessary for producing bays of ear splitting decibel levels) and the unusual amount of coat- defeating large skin folds with which we bloodhounds are so generously endowed; no one is betting the farm (or the apartment) that this thing is going to fit, but fortunately it is returnable providing it has only been tried on and my humans can de-hair it sufficiently. And as every car rental company in America knows, if there is one thing that my humans are good at, it is removing my hair from places that my hair should not be. Which is to say everywhere. Of course all this assumes that even without leg holes we won’t have rollicking games of Catch Me if You Can when it comes time to suit up.

 

And as many of you will have guessed, my second lump of coal is the fact that an array of seasonal headgear has once again made its annual appearance. This seems to delight everyone except for me.  There is some compensatory extra attention that accrues to a Hound in headgear and there is also an inexhaustible supply of bribing turkey to make it all possible but I still fail to see the point.

Of course I fail to see the point of most things that my humans want me to do or not do and I am naturally very good about raising objections which seems to delight everyone except my humans. You will notice that the only picture of me in a Santa hat is one that was taken a few years ago—it took my humans two hours to get that picture so they retired the Santa hat and recycle the picture every year.

 

And yesterday was a one of those glorious days when Elizabeth and I were out and about for a solid three hours of Houndly fun.  Being in fine voice, I stopped by to wish the 77^th Street pedicab guys an enthusiastic Merry Christmas and then was able to find a particularly icy path over which to tow Elizabeth.  Next we hung out by Belvedere Castle where I held court and posed for pictures before heading into the Ramble for some snow rolling and more meeting and greeting and trying to entice various other canines to play with me—even the full sized ones who I usually ignore in favor of the little guys who flee in terror at the sight (and sound) of me. Then after a minor skirmish (that I won) over which direction we should walk we ended up at the Great Lawn where I tried to steal a ball from a lovely Doberman girl, thus even more conclusively demonstrating to Elizabeth that brains and judgment are not my strong suits. Fortunately the Dobie was a very mellow girl (and she wouldn’t play with me either) but I managed to charm her human out of a cookie that I promptly spat out mortifying Elizabeth.

Then, after another minor skirmish over our direction (in which I also triumphed) we headed out of the park and over to a pet shop that was conveniently located en route to visit my friend, The Broadway Jewelry Lady Who Feeds Me Snacks. I engaged in some acoustically robust baying which attracted a steady stream of admirers who wished to pet me, photograph me and hear all about me.   I then looked in at Lush Cosmetics, where I am a popular (and well fed) visitor and finally, slightly more than three hours after leaving my apartment, I was face first in a large bowl of boiled chicken, yams, pumpkin and kibble over at Elizabeth’s.  

 Meanwhile, Elizabeth alerted Maria to the fact that since I had such a long and busy day I would probably want a lengthy nap so she shouldn’t plan on picking me up after work. Not a bit of it! A two-hour kip and I was off to try to break into the cat hospital. What can I say, the season inspires me.

Anyway, as I discussed last week, we have our Christmas traditions and one of these is the reposting of my Night Before Christmas. So without further ado:

Wimsey’s Night before Christmas
 

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a Hound.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there before the Hound could shred them.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of Hounds danced in their heads.

And mamma in her shredded ‘kerchief, and I in my chewed up cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap with the Hound.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what the Hound had gotten into now.

Away to the window I flew—stepping over the Hound-- like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen yellow snow

Gave the luster of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer being chased by a Hound.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick (he had to be to get away from the Hound),

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than Hounds his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Wimsey and Vixen!
 On, Comet! On, Cupid! on Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall where the Hound can’t get to us!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As peed on leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew away from the Hound,

With the sleigh full of rawhides, and St. Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof and a lot of loud baying.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a Hound.

He was dressed all in fur (The Hound thought he was a stuffed toy), from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot and drool.

A bundle of rawhides he had flung on his back trying to keep it from the Hound,

And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled as he looked at the Hound! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as yellow as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth to keep the Hound from stealing it,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed at the Hound, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself and the fact that the Hound had stolen his hat!

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread (I live with a Hound, what more is there to dread).

He spoke not a word—he was speechless--, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk as the Hound poked him in the tush.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose as the Hound chased him!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, let’s get away from that giant smelly dog

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle after a Hound has sneezed on it.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to the Hound a good-night!" (and good riddance!)

So a Happy Christmas to you all as well. And let’s all come together to ban these heinous antlers once and for all!

Well I think I will leave it there for this week.  It’s a good thing that Santa is apparently a Hound lover and doesn’t care whether Hounds have been naughty or nice. If he did we’d be screwed! Merry Christmas Everyone!

 

Until next time,

Wimsey, Santa’s favorite present-stealing elf

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #326

Entry # 326

December 13, 2013

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here, coming to you from beyond the Arctic Circle where some pesky person has apparently moved the Island of Manhattan and the Upper West Side. And although I love this nippy weather, the downside is that my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth insist that I wear a winter coat whilst out for my cold weather perambulations. Fortunately getting me into these things involves fistfuls of turkey and at Elizabeth’s apartment, a rousing game of Chase the Hound With the Fleece. 

Sadly, I am not alone, coat-wise as the neighborhood is a veritable fashion show of the latest canine styles. From the roughest, toughest Rottweiler to the tiniest Chihuahua we are all afflicted with this human created sartorial plague. My humans have also been threatening me with booties to protect my delicate feet but I know that this is an idle threat.  Booties were tried several years ago and even with a variety of bootie types success was very limited.  Unless unfairly disadvantaged by the administration of a powerful anesthetic, it is mere Hound’s play for me to remove one bootie whilst the humans struggle to get even one of my paws into a second.  Since two humans working in feverish concert were never able to achieve even a mere two-boot shod Wimsey, they wisely concluded that one human plus four boots is one army too few and four boots too many.

Nevertheless I do my best before every walk to convince my humans that dressing me in clothing, no matter how comely, is wholly unnecessary. After all, it was only last week that someone mistook me for a Malamute  (can I say how much it pleases me to be mistaken for a macho breed!) and we northern breeds do very well without the extra clothing (although Elizabeth claims to have once seen a Manhattan husky in a coat).  Anyway, this week’s pictures feature my chartreuse fleece (the only color, apart from black, that Ruff Wear used to offer—I need to be careful not to damage this one as the company replaced the chartreuse one with one in neon orange) and my Ruff Wear Climate Changer (my wet weather snow suit, otherwise known as The Speedo, owing to its elastic, figure hugging fit; I have one of these in black also and it is known as The Tron Speedo).  All I can say is that if a giant black and tan Hound strutting the streets of Manhattan provokes smiles, a giant black and tan Hound wearing brightly colored clothing appears to be even more risible.  Either that or people are amused by the fact that I am accompanied by one or more humans who look like they are planning an imminent assault on the South Pole.  Whereas normal (non-Hound) female Manhattanites might be attracted to apparel that declares itself to be Prada or Chanel my ladies’ eyes are magnetically attracted to apparel that declares itself to be “Expedition Weight”.

Anyway, whether it is the festive, pre-Christmas atmosphere or the snappy temperatures or the little bit of snow that we had, on Wednesday I was “in a mood.” Being in a mood generally involves a lot of loud baying, a relentless determination to tow my humans in the direction in which I want to go (or more accurately, an even more relentless determination to tow my humans in the direction in which I want to go) and a lot of poking of pedestrians and inhaling of small dogs.

And this mood led me to tow Elizabeth south down Broadway--being sure to walk under the arcades that contain all the Lincoln Center restaurant sidewalk cafes—to Columbus Circle. I had fully intended to visit The Time Warner Center and annoy the shoppers by investigating their bags and then follow this up by annoying Elizabeth by taking her on a tour of Construction Sites of the Far West Side (one of my favorite walks!) but it turns out that Elizabeth has really had enough of Construction Sites of The Far West Side and produced sufficient bribing turkey and elbow grease to turn me towards Central Park instead.

The problem with that is the Columbus Circle entrance to Central Park is now blocked with the Christmas Fair and taking a Hound in a Mood through the Christmas Fair is not for the faint hearted or the two handed. Nevertheless, Elizabeth did manage to get me through the fair and I have a (very) few photos to prove it (although there are not many photos in general this week owing to the difficulty involved in taking photos whilst wearing Expedition Weight gloves).  Fortunately the gloomy weather meant that the fair wasn’t too dense with potential drool flinging victims-- although I did manage to stop at the hot chocolate stand and bay vigorously for some refreshment before trying to help Elizabeth select a nice, new hat to try on.  My humans would like to return to the fair when there are two of them to manage me so we can get some additional photos of this colorful event (and Elizabeth does actually need another hideous but warm winter hat to accessorize her Michelin Man parka).

Well tomorrow the forecast around here is for SNOW—something that delights me and horrifies my humans.  For example on Wednesday the field on which I had the snow zoomies and nearly managed to pull Elizabeth over on barely had even an inch.  Imagine what I can do with increased accumulation! To say nothing of the ice!

Now here in the Big Apple--which reminds me, on Wednesday, too, Elizabeth was trying to eat an actual apple, very unsuccessfully as it turns out. I like apples. But I digress. Here in the big city, as in the rest of the country, the Christmas season is one of tradition. In my case, it is the tradition of trying to pee on Christmas trees, of wearing my green seasonal ruff with bells, of inspecting the Christmas shopping of total strangers, of caroling at the Christmas Fair, etc. 

But I also like to review my past holiday blog posts and I usually republish my “Night Before Christmas.”  However, on this date in 1843, Charles Dickens published “A Christmas Carol” and therefore I think that it is fitting to republish my own version from December 17, 2010, #193. But before I do, it comes with a caveat—the post is a tad harsh on the investment banking community (NB: both my humans have Wall Street jobs in their backgrounds), which hardly seems charitable in this season of peace.  But Dickens wasn’t too nice about Ebenezer Scrooge either so it is in this spirit that the post was written. But as a Hound I carry no special animus towards anybody (well, except maybe Wilbur the Gordon Setter)—I will fling drool, bay at and shed and stink up everyone without a trace of discrimination.  Anyway, in the spirit of Dickens, here is:

Wimsey’s  A Christmas Carol

Jacob Marley: Ebenezer Scrooge! Wake up! I have an urgent communication for you.

Scrooge: Jacob Marley! But you’re dead! You fell into a crevasse on that “You too can climb Mt. Everest” holiday for rich, middle-aged investment bankers.

Jacob Marley: Don’t rub it in. One bad vacation decision and poof, done! I knew I should have gone for that white water rafting down the Zambezi thing. But anyway, that’s not why I am here. The Big Boss doesn’t think you’ve been behaving very well.

Scrooge: Don’t tell me it’s about sending that idiot Cratchit off to China to work on the Beijing deal during Christmas?

Marley: No, not that. He had a choice after all.

Scrooge: If you think he had a choice then you haven’t met the second Mrs. Cratchit. She’s a twenty-five year old former model and she tends to re-evaluate her marital options when she doesn’t get what she wants. And this year she wants Santa to bring her a house in Aspen and a villa in St. Barth’s. And of course little Tim costs a bundle too--he needs a day nanny and a night nanny and a traveling nanny. Mrs. Cratchit says she’d rather not give him too much Ritalin and so it’s better for him to be cared for by people who know what they are doing.

Marley: Well I guess some of us do adventure holidays and some of us do models. Diversity is after all it what makes the world of investment banking so interesting.

Scrooge: Then why are you here? I think I’ve been behaving well---I haven’t assured a client once today that his business is the firm’s highest priority, or made a junior associate cry—I even gave them a few hours off for Christmas! —or claimed my mistress was really Steve Jobs on my expense report—at least not this week—or bribed a research analyst, or threatened to emasculate our compliance officer. So what’s the problem? I hope this isn’t going to affect my bonus or anything. That would be even worse than your crevasse escapade!

Marley: No, I’m afraid we’ve had a much more serious complaint about you.

Scrooge: How could anything be more serious than the stuff I usually get up to?

Marley: Well apparently you’ve hired Cesar Millan to train your Hound.

Scrooge: The little Mexican guy with the TV show? Is he in trouble with immigration?

Marley: No. Apparently your Hound is peeved.

Scrooge: And this is a problem why?

Marley: Well spell the Big Boss’ name backwards and you’ll understand. He loves all creatures great and small, but has a special soft spot for Hounds since he created them to keep humans humble and in their place.

Scrooge: OK, so I’ll fire the Millan guy. Things weren’t going too well anyway; especially after Millan told him to sit and T-Bill peed on his leg and stole his lunch.

Marley: I’m afraid it’ s not so simple, so I’ll cut to the chase---each night for the next three nights you will be visited by a ghost who will explain everything.

Scrooge: But won’t I get to see you again?

Marley: Oh I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon. Especially if you buy that Ferrari you’re thinking about.

The next night….

Hound of Christmas Past: Ebenezer Scrooge! Get your lazy dog training ass out of that bed immediately!

Scrooge: Hey. You’re pretty cute. Are you any relation to T-Bill by any chance?

HoCP: Of course I’m cute. I’m a Hound you dog training imbecile! And yes, T-Bill is one of my descendants. Before I was the Hound of Christmas Past I was Ch. If You Have It I Want it.

Scrooge: OK, but where are we going?

HoCP: In general, the answer to that is “wherever I feel like towing you,” but specifically we are going to take a look at a happy Christmas from your childhood. Grab this leash and hang on. I don’t want another trip to the emergency room.

Scrooge: Look! That’s my childhood home. Boy it was small—I bet it’s under 3000 square feet! And no marble baths or granite countertops or Jacuzzis either.

 

HoCP: Cease babbling you dog training toad! We’re not here to discuss real estate.

Scrooge: But I’m from New York! And you know the old saying, the bigger your apartment’s square footage the bigger your….

HoCP: Funny, I’ve always observed the opposite. Now, what do you see?

Scrooge: What a mess! There seem to be ornaments missing from the tree and the wrapping are off half the packages. And there’s a strange puddle under the tree branches! And the couch cushions are held together with tape.

HoCP: Now to the kitchen you pompous dog training twit.

Scrooge: It’s my mother! She’s preparing Christmas morning breakfast. Or trying to. The family Hound seems to be snatching some key ingredients. I always wondered why we never had any bacon.

HoCP: And is she hiring Cesar Millan?

Scrooge: No. She’s laughing.

HoCP: Now to the bedroom you sniveling dog training wimp.

Scrooge: It’s me! And I’m sleeping on the floor just like I remember. Our family Hound used to shove me there in the middle of the night so he could stretch out.

HoCP: Exactly. And now you know why you’ve never had to see a chiropractor. Well that’s it for me you monstrous dog training waste of protoplasm. I’ve got a meal to steal.

The next night…

Hound of Christmas Present: Wakey wakey Ebenezer before I put my cold wet nose down the old pajama bottom and have a good moist sniff.

Scrooge: No! Please don’t do that! T-Bill did that last month when I was late for his walk and I still have nightmares about it. And speaking of whom, you look like him too.

HoCP: Yes, I am another relative, Ch. If I See It It’s Mine. Well now we are going to look at the dreadful present that you’ve created.

Scrooge: Look! It’s T-Bill! Can he hear me?

HoCP: Would it matter if he could?

Scrooge: No, I suppose not. It’s one of the reasons I hired Cesar Millan. There he is, trying to train T-Bill!

Cesar Millan: I am the pack leader.

T-Bill: And I can flap my ears and fling drool at the same time.

Cesar Millan: Wipe! I am calm and assertive.

T-Bill: And I make people crazy and frustrated. Wanna see?

Cesar Millan: I am the leader and you are the follower.

T-Bill: Don’t care if you are the man in the moon, I’m off to shred something valuable unless we spend the day in the park.

Cesar Millan: I’m going to put you on your side and make you submit.

T-Bill: Don’t mind if I do but while you’re doing that could you rub my belly? See the thing is, I actually don’t care if you think that you are the pack leader or are calm and assertive, or are the dominant one, etc. It’s all the same to me. I just do what I want to do. I am a Hound.

HoCP: Now does T-Bill look happy? Wouldn’t he rather be dragging you around the park?

Scrooge: I don’t have time. I am too important. I hire people to look after him.

HoCP: But he feels that making the life of your employees miserable is not the same as making yours miserable. It makes him unhappy. And whatever makes a Hound unhappy is inherently wrong.

Scrooge: But he has his own room! And it’s filled with expensive toys.

HoCP: But they’re his toys. Where’s the sport in playing with those! He needs your toys and your time to fulfill his Houndly nature.

The next night…

Hound of Christmas Future: Awake you dog training pustule. I am the Hound of Christmas Future and I wait for no man.

Scrooge: Another of T-Bill’s relatives I presume?

HoCF: Yes, Ch. You Talkin To Me not at your service.

Scrooge: OK, what are you going to show me?

HoCF: Observe! It is Christmas some years hence.

Scrooge: I hope it’s before I total the Ferrari and die.

HoCF: Well we thought of showing you that but we’ll leave that sort of thing to Dickens. Anyway, we have something much worse.

Scrooge: Worse? But this looks like a fun party!

HoCF: Notice anything?

Scrooge: The apartment and the furniture are all white and unblemished.

HoCF: Disgusting isn’t it? It’s simply not organic.

Scrooge: And the table appears laden with wonderful aromatic food. And the food is staying in place.

HoCF: Appalling waste!

Scrooge: And I have a real Christmas tree!! And there are presents under the tree! And real candy canes are hanging from the branches. And nicely dressed people are sitting around. And it’s so quiet. There’s no baying. And people aren’t shrieking “Go away!’ and ‘Get off me!” and ”Get me a towel!” and “I was eating that!”

HoCF: And you know your local dry cleaner had to close his store because of the drop in business. It’s now a Duane Reade.

 

Scrooge: But where is T-Bill?

HoCF: Cesar Millan took him away to the Dog Psychology Center.

Scrooge: There’s me! How come I’m so fat?

HoCF: Without T-Bill to chase after and endlessly walk and share your food you started putting on weight.

Scrooge: I don’t think ‘share’ is the right word.

HoCF: A technicality. The point is you’ve had to forget about all those double breasted Italian jobs you used to wear.

Scrooge: I loved those suits! They made a real statement.

HoCF: What statement was that?

Scrooge: “I make more money than you do.” Of course T-Bill loved those suits too which is why I had to buy so many.

HoCF:  The company that made them went out of business too. But I have saved the worst for last.

Scrooge: It’s me talking to my guests. But what’s that on my lap!?

HoCF: It’s a toy poodle!

The next morning…

Scrooge: Hello, Cesar? Yes. Scrooge here. Yes. T-Bill’s human. Listen it’s not working out. I’ve decided to go another way. Yes, I thought you’d think that was good news. T-Bill! Stop shoving! This is not your bed! Well, OK, not all of it is your bed. Here have my croissant and Merry Christmas!

The End.

I love stories with a happy endings—we Hounds usually do since we strive to make all our endeavors end happily. At least for us.

Anyway, Happy Friday 13^th—not to worry, anyone lucky enough to have a Hound has paid their Friday 13^th dues for the forseeable future!

Well happy shopping (and good luck hiding it from your Hound)

Until next time,

Wimsey, the Hound of Christmas “Oh No! What’s He Done Now!”

 

wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #325

Entry #325

December 6, 2013

Hello everyone, it’s me, Wimsey coming to you from the festive burgh of Houndistan- on- Hudson—otherwise known as Manhattan’s Upper West Side, where Thanksgiving is over and Christmas looms large. And as is the case every year the streets are suddenly lined with fragrant pine trees just awaiting a little watering by an eager Hound with a giant bladder. And as is the case every year, my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth dread the sudden appearance of these trees and in Grinch-like fashion take circuitous routes around them and keep me on a tight rein when this is not possible.

I decided this week that if I am not supposed to pee on them, perhaps there is no prohibition about pooping on them—however, there was a shriek of dismay and some rapid and forceful leash work when I attempted to back my butt onto one of their branches. So I guess there is a poop prohibition in effect also, which is strange since in a few weeks the streets will be chock a block with these things and I am then magically permitted to put them to the use that nature intended. What can I say? Human beings are a capricious lot whose natures bear little resemblance to the relentlessly consistent nature of the Hound. If we do not wish our humans to do a thing—like cut our nails, for instance—we do not suddenly wake up one day and decide to allow it. Mine have defeated the ministrations of several generations of groomers and teams of experienced vet techs and the only time that I permitted it, I had no choice.  I was under the influence of a powerful anesthetic. I firmly believe that my thwacking activities would be a lot less impactful if my talons were to be trimmed.

But that is not to say that I am close-minded about presenting a well-groomed appearance.  Elizabeth has me on an every other week rotation of afternoon baths to try to cut down the stench (notice I said “cut down on” and not “eliminate”) and she is a lot more generous about the concomitant turkey feeding than Maria is when she assists.  Also, Elizabeth has taken to using my Zoom Groom to massage me after I have been doused with GrimeInator (yes that really is the name of the shampoo and its name was unsurprisingly the principal reason for its selection). 

 

I am starting to find the bathing process rather pleasing, to say nothing of the extensive towel massage that follows when Elizabeth futilely attempts to dry me.  It does not matter how long I am given a towel massage, nor how many towels are used, once I am wet, I stay wet (of course, getting me wet in the first place is not easy either and involves the lengthy application of a copious quantity of water from a high pressure shower attachment). My humans have tried poking me to get me to shake more and wringing out my wrinkles and skin folds but all to no avail. My fur simply refuses to dry.  And as an added bonus my bath takes up Elizabeth’s afternoon (to say nothing of the time it takes to deconstruct the bathroom in preparation and then reconstruct it afterwards and to get Hound hair off the ceiling) which means that she is not sitting at her computer, or talking of the phone or reading the newspaper or (horror of horrors) leaving me alone to run errands or doing any of the other things that take her focus off of where it belongs—on ME.  And then after my bath Elizabeth prepares me a lovely meal featuring baked yam and the poultry de jour following which I lie all over as many surfaces as possible in order transfer a maximum amount of moisture. But in one of those remarkable Hound achievements, I still remain wet.

Anyway, Christmas is coming—I found this pop up Christmas tree in Central Park—and there are a lot of tourists in town to soak up the magic of Christmas in New York of which I am a well-deserved part. On the downside, any day now the bag containing my seasonal headgear and festive ruff will make its appearance and my humans will try to get me to pose to give the impression that I am content to calmly perambulate about the park caparisoned in antlers and elf hats instead of trying to shake off the vile things and kill them.

 

And today, since it was chilly and wet I decided it was a good time to take a nice long walk to visit the Christmas Fair at the southern end of Central Park. Unfortunately, Elizabeth decided that this was inadvisable as four hands are better than two in restraining my shopping proclivities. And since the fair is such a colorful and traditional scene, my visits deserve to be immortalized photographically, which is difficult to achieve whilst thwarting a Hound with an ardent desire to inspect and test merchandise. But hopefully the three of us will make it down there soon. If not, Elizabeth will be forced to endure an afternoon visit fraught with photographic terror.

Nothing much else is new, unless you count the fact that my humans’ birthdays are coming up in January and Elizabeth is busy planning her annual Escape from Me which ends up being her annual Shopping Trip for Me. Last year it was Istanbul and this year Maui and Brazil are the leading contenders. She is learning to say, “where is the most expensive pet store in town” in both Hawaiian and Portuguese and I am helping her get bikini ready by dragging her around and eating her food.  No one can ever accuse me of being a lily of the field.  We Hounds are always hard at work and we are very good at what we do. It’s what our humans love about us so much. Or not.

And there is never any mystery about what Hounds do—one has only to talk with a human who lives with a Hound to hear astonishing tales of our powers of destruction and other assorted hilarious antics--among them the fact that although we are unable to understand the word “sit” no matter how many times it is repeated, we morph into mini Einsteins when it comes to figuring out how to get something that we want. And unlike the popular song, “What Does the Fox Say,” the whole neighborhood knows what we say. But here are some nuances:

What Does the Hound Say

Gimme that!

It was on the counter and then it suddenly fell on the floor.

I can fling faster than you can wipe.

There is no such thing as inedible.

Those shrubs were in my way.

Waffle truck at nine o’clock!

The floor is good for your back.

I didn’t drink it, I only tasted it.

You can’t work on the computer if you can’t see the screen.

The couch was delicious.

Holes are the new black.

Are you really taking me into the show ring with just that little string around my neck?

Hello! Are you awake? Good, you can scratch me.

I can fit.

Engage tractor beam.

I wish to get to know that squirrel better.

That dream I’m having—I gotta run fast. You want your bra back.

Don’t be ridiculous; we’ve only been out here for a couple of hours!

Your lap, my ass--perfect together.

But they’re trees!

 

But the trees have toys hanging from them!

Candy canes give me minty fresh breath.

Did you say something?

I was invited to that picnic—they were eating on the grass!

Watcha got in those bags?

Here have some manure, it’s delicious!

Mine!

You’re home. Good. My belly needs scratching. 

What do you mean, YOUR couch?

Well, you get the idea. I’m a very verbal Hound. Well I think I will leave it there for this week.  I have a lot of Christmas shopping to do. My humans just hope that it doesn’t involve their shoes.

Until next time,

Wimsey, I say AHROOO! (Mostly at 6am).