Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #341

Entry #341

February 14, 2014

Hello Everyone, it’s me, Wimsey, coming to you from the snowy precincts of Manhattan’s Upper West Side where, yet again, a Weather Channel induced frenzy heralded the arrival of some pretty mundane winter weather. And much to the chagrin of my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth, I appear to be the only canine in the ‘hood who is not sporting either booties or Pawz on my delicate bear claws. I much prefer to lift my salt and snow encrusted tootsies and let my humans wipe away the salt and snow. This works much better than booties and makes it far more comfortable to walk. At least for me.

 

Well it’s been an exciting few weeks around here—what with Elizabeth crazed about finishing a project that got behind while she dawdled pointlessly in Maui for her birthday and the snowy weather and The Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, etc. But before I forget, I want to wish you all a Happy Valentine’s Day and want you all to know just how much I love me. I hope you do too because I have serious doubts about the depth of affection of my humans.  I realized this last week when Maria told a woman that, as a bloodhound, I can never be let off my leash safely and that I don’t go to the dog run, either. The woman snorted and told my humans that I have a terrible life (New Yorkers are never shy about expressing their opinions, especially where it concerns other people’s dogs or kids). But I was ecstatic! Finally a human who recognizes how terrible my life really is!

Reasons Why I, Wimsey, Have a Terrible Life

Elizabeth never puts enough butter on my baked yams.

Maria feeds me regular organic vanilla yogurt for breakfast instead of the creamier Greek kind.

Grom Gelato closed.

The snack assortment that my humans carry to feed me on my walks never has the one that I want.

When I am in the bathtub Elizabeth takes far too many breaks from feeding me turkey to wash me.

Maria hogs the bed and some nights insists on occupying it even though there is no room for her.

Elizabeth always wants to cut my park perambulations short after two hours to go back to work.

My pet shop tours to sample the cookies and inspect the merchandise are limited to two a week.

Maria often sits around for an entire minute before changing my water when I drool in it.

Elizabeth’s couch is uncomfortable.

My humans’ laps are too small.

Raincoats, winter coats and cooling coats.

Kibble.

No one ever wants to join me for a dip in the Lake in Central Park.

My humans insist on picking up my poop even though it took me hours to find just the right spot for it.

My humans call me “Sir” when they know very well that I prefer “Your Highness.”

My humans neglect me terribly and then blame in on things like having to eat, sleep, bathe or earn a living.

 

And that’s really just the tip of the iceberg.  And speaking of icebergs, the weather last week turned my favorite fields in Riverside Park into deeply pitted icescapes. All the boot tracks and footprints froze making walking through them a treacherous exercise in balance and foot placement-- so naturally that’s where I want to walk. I love to go from hole to hole having a good sniff in each one and if my humans topple over, so much the better. And when I take a break from going from ice hole to ice hole I go from snow bank to snow bank instead, rolling in each one. In addition to being fun and so much more interesting than relieving myself, snow rolling has the added benefit of defeating much of the purpose of my new, pricey, imported winter coat. 

I love winter! Last night Maria came home early from work so I took the ladies on a two-hour deep powder extravaganza, the only downside being that everyone stayed upright. But in my defense, it was a near thing if all the squeaking and squealing were any indication. And we ran into my Ibizan Hound buddy, Phineas! We cadged cookies in stereo (Phineas is an expert cookie cadger despite his svelte physique and has already trained his human to give him an extra cup of kibble in the evening in exchange for an hour’s peace.). Phineas himself was never shown, but he comes of show stock and his relatives have been very successful at Westminster so there was much nattering amongst the humans about this year’s show and the paucity of Hound winners.

And speaking of Westminster, my humans were ringside for the breed judging and as usual had traumatic flashbacks to my days in the show ring when I chose to put my own unique stamp on the activity, much to their consternation. Indeed my loud and dynamic showing style is the stuff of legend- especially the time that I gaited around the ring with my nose pressed to the ground so that I could track the steps of my beloved Phoebe (Ch. Soonipi’s Dancin’ in the Moonlight) and finished my once around with my nose up her backside. I then insisted on stacking backwards so I could gaze adoringly into her exquisitely droopy face. She showed her approbation of all this by looking regal and by not biting me on the nose which, was her accustomed way of dealing with pesky male suitors.  And let’s just say that when I was being shown you did not have to actually see me to know that I was there.

But my checkered show career (including three Westminsters!) was not for want of my humans trying. Every day Elizabeth would bundle up a huge pile of cavalettis, put them into a shopping cart and then haul them to Riverside Park to meet Maria and me. This was an attempt to teach me all about the joys of trotting nicely like a show dog instead of pacing not nicely like a Frankendog.  Unfortunately all Elizabeth succeeded in teaching me was how to pace over cavalettis (a difficult, but masterable skill, especially when she kept changing the spacing to thwart my efforts) while baying loudly and poking her in the side to disgorge liver. But the neighborhood found it very entertaining to watch and to listen to and I cleaned up in the liver department. Sadly it was later determined that liver was too “high value” since instead of encouraging learning it merely encouraged baying. But the cavalettis were useful for chewing on.

But I digress. So the ladies went to Westminster, and not for the first time thought that it was very unfair that bloodhounds are supposed to gait with their heads up when our natural instinct is to gait with our heads down. And if our heads are up it is because we are air scenting and then we are moving them side-to-side, which is also not desirable in the show ring. But I would go further than that and say that many changes are called for since we bloodhounds have many fine instincts.

For instance, why could we not gait with a whole, stolen roast chicken in our mouths? Or perhaps with a nice brassiere or a pair of used panties?  And why should we stand in that ridiculous pose that no Hound ever assumes when the judge could just as easily check that our feet were well knuckled up, that our ribs were well sprung and that our bits were all present and accounted for while we are lying on our backs demanding a belly rub-a position that a Hound always assumes.  Also, the judge could determine firsthand that our forelegs were straight and large in bone when we thwacked him with them when he stopped scratching.  And surely the amount of drool that we should be allowed to fling on the judge would be a fine testament to the depth of our flews. And instead of free stacking I would propose instead one of my own favorite pioneering innovations, the stalk stack, wherein one front and one back leg are extended and the body is lowered much as it is when there is a squirrel that needs to be surprised.  This affords the judge a much better view of both our topline and our expression of wisdom, solemnity and power since the sneaking up of on squirrels is a matter of the utmost gravity. And since the bloodhound is supposed to be affectionate and not quarrelsome with other dogs I think socializing should be encouraged, particularly with the Lady Hounds and those dogs without nipped noses should be deemed the most attractive.

I have many other such excellent ideas that careen around in my pointy head (my prominent occipital peak, in breed standard speak) but many of them prove sadly unpopular with humans.  Anyway, the ladies had a great time as usual at Westminster. They hung out with Rocket Man (GCH Flessner's International Space Station At Honidge) whose human, Judy, is an old friend of Maria’s. Rocket Man gallantly thwarted Elizabeth’s unfamiliar attempt to look nice by licking her face makeup off and thwarted Maria’s all too familiar attempt to stay vertical by knocking her over and sitting on her. Rocket Man may not have taken home the ribbon but he is a winner in my book!

And the ladies also mingled with Garth (GCH Soonipi Friends In Low Places Mlh) who took Select in what had to be a squeaker and then repaired to his kennel to console himself with his Beaver. According to Garth’s human, Karen, Garth loves his Beaver. I think most Hounds do.

But of course the Hound of the Hour was Rocket Man’s brother, Nathan (GCH Flessner's International S’Cess).  The ladies had the good fortune to run into his owner- handler, Heather, a few years ago at a show in Harrisburg when she had the bad fortune to have a dog kenneled near me. Let us just say that I was very vocal about the unfairness of having to sit in my crate when confined and very vocal about the unfairness of not being able to socialize freely when not confined. Earplugs not included. 

Anyway, the ladies chatted with Heather after Nathan’s spectacular win in the Hound Group and she was just as surprised as anyone. She was of course extremely pleased to have made the cut and when the judge moved Nathan into the first spot right before it became official she was in such shock that she thought, “Well, it’s not over yet.” But it was over and it was all Nathan and all whoops of joy here in Houndistan on Hudson. Now although Nathan seems unnaturally quiet, I was relieved to see that he has mastered the mandatory head turn in response to the presence of Elizabeth with a camera. But she didn’t mind. She’s used to it. And on Best In Show night the bloodhound was the crowd favorite, probably because the people cheering don’t have to live with one.

Well I think I will leave it there for this week as I have much to think about.  There was a comment left on one of my Facebook posts that suggested that my lying in the middle of a path in Riverside Park must have embarrassed my humans. This got me thinking about how minor an embarrassment that was compared to all the other things that I’ve done to them. But such pleasant reminiscences will have to wait---I still have all the grievances of my terrible life to nurse. Less chicken, more quail!

Until next time,

Wimsey, Everyone’s Valentine (some humans excepted)

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #340

 

Entry #340

January 31, 2014

Hello Everyone it is me, Wimsey, back with you on the Upper West Side of Manhattan after my winter hiatus. It is hard to know who is happier about things getting back to normal—my human Maria who doesn’t have to take care of me 24/7 because her friend Elizabeth is back from a birthday jaunt to Maui or Elizabeth who doesn’t have to take care of me 24/7 because Maria is sufficiently recovered from eye surgery to resume her Hound serving duties. And then there is me who am happy to have both my humans and both their apartments at my disposal once again.

Elizabeth got back last Saturday and in spite of the 12 hour flight came over immediately to reacquaint herself with “her” Hound (I am usually “her Hound” for that brief interval before I do something obnoxious and then I become “Maria’s Hound.”). I was quite happy to see Elizabeth again and even managed to eat a few of the Hawaiian coconut and pineapple cookies that she brought for me before spitting them out as is my custom when I am ready to move on to a different snack. And I sat on her lap and drooled on her and dug my elbows into various sensitive portions of her anatomy to demonstrate my approbation of her return. But then on Monday I was summarily packed off to Elizabeth’s (“packed” being the operative word since it took an entire backpack to transport the minimum amount of my chattels necessary for my care for a couple of days while Maria had and recovered from some outpatient eye surgery (the better to see me and admire me I believe).

Now ordinarily this would be a good thing since I very much enjoy hanging out (read, bothering, annoying, harassing, irritating and frustrating) with Elizabeth. However, this usually occurs while Maria is at work and not when she is sitting in her apartment a few blocks away where I can clearly smell her in the neighborhood. So every time we went out I would try to tow over there to see if she wanted to come along.  But then on Wednesday evening she finally appeared at Elizabeth’s apartment (I merely glanced at her and thumped my tail once because I was communing with my bully stick) and we all went for a walk together. And as is my custom on such occasions I tried to tow back to Elizabeth’s because I am supposed to be going home. 

Anyway, there has always been a scurrilous rumor that I am not an intelligent dog. This is apparently based on the fact that I am not a rocket scientist or a border colie and don’t do tricks or obey commands (in fact my humans think it is hilarious when some stranger wants to give me a treat and asks me to shake hands or something ridiculous like that) and I often walk into things and wrap my leash around trees.  But Elizabeth was finally disabused of this notion of my intellectual deficits during my stay with her; I gave her a Master Class in Intelligent Hound behavior:  I have a toe with a small growth on it that I am not supposed to lick. So as I was lying on Elizabeth’s rug licking it she said “Wimsey stop licking your toe,” pushed my head aside and made the fatal error of rubbing my stomach.  It only took one instance of her ceasing to rub my belly and me resuming the licking of my toe and a second “Wimsey stop licking your toe” followed by a resumption of the stomach rubbing to convince me that I now possessed a completely new tool to command a belly rub! Thereafter during my stay whenever I wanted a belly rub, instead of rolling over and hoping for the best, I would lick my toe and as soon as I heard “Wimsey stop licking your toe” I would immediate roll over to have my belly rubbed.

Elizabeth frequently justifies teaching me obnoxious behaviors under the guise of “giving the dog a vocabulary to express its needs.” She uses this concept very successfully with shelter dogs to get them to sit politely and look at her when they want a piece of turkey instead of jumping, mouthing or attempting to acquire it for themselves. Fortunately for her, none of those dogs is a Hound who possesses a vast and elaborate set of needs, requests and demands.  Thanks to Elizabeth I now have quite an impressive “vocabulary” with which to communicate my desires not the least of which is licking my toe when I want a belly rub.

 

For instance, I can say:

I want a cookie.

No not that cookie, another one.

Not that cookie either. Perhaps a piece of turkey.

I wish to go out NOW.

I do not wish to go out now. I wish to continue my nap.

Go sleep on the couch, there is no room on the bed.

Sit on the floor, there is no room on the couch.

Get off the couch I want to stretch out.

Come over here and scratch me.

It’s time to take a break from the computer.

I do not wish you to read the newspapers.

If you want me to eat this disgusting bowl of kibble put some actual food in it.

I want to eat  ________ (insert whatever you are eating).

If you leave me alone when I do not wish to be left alone there will be consequences.

Let me out of this bathtub NOW.

I do not wish to wear that coat.

I need another bowl of water-this one has drool in it.

I am bored.

Hedgie wants to go for a walk.

Whichever way you want to walk, I do not wish to walk that way.

Go away!

Come here!

Mine!

And those are just the ones that I can remember off the top of my pointy head.  I think I am really quite an intelligent beast and I always say that if your Hound doesn’t listen to you it’s because you are saying the wrong thing.  Although I don’t understand “Wimsey stop that” I always understand “Wimsey come here and have a piece of pizza.” And now of course, “Wimsey don’t lick your toe.”

We also had another Polar Whatchamacallit which sent the temperature plummeting and sent me over to the dog run to sit and watch the dogs play and to socialize with the entire Upper West Side instead of looking for a place to relieve myself. I think the cool fresh air is very stimulating for my humans because they jump up and down and talk to me a lot with some very unfamiliar words.

It is axiomatic that the devil is in the details and I take this concept very much to heart. I do not cause my humans mental anguish by undertaking flashy but infrequent actions—like eating the couch (OK, maybe for some Hounds this isn’t so infrequent an action) but I constantly erode their sanity in small yet endless and persistent ways—like periodically calling a halt to our walks until I have been fed sufficient supplies of my desired cookie du jour, or towing to the apartment that I am not supposed to be in, or always putting my body in the spot that Elizabeth’s feet need to be when she sits on the couch, or monopolizing Maria’s bed and refusing to move to allow her space, or being anal retentive whenever climactic conditions are unpleasant, or deciding that I am not in the mood to pee during my last walk of the night, or coming in from a walk where I have declined to eliminate and then demanding to go out again immediately, or deciding that the length of my afternoon walk is directly proportional to the amount of work  Elizabeth has on her desk,  or demanding to be bribed into my collar and harness and given a special snack at the door, or refusing to shake myself when I am in the bathtub (except when I am all soaped up) and then shaking myself as soon as I get out so I coat the bathroom with water, drool and hair, or demanding that yogurt, ice cream and gelato be fed to me on a spoon, or making Elizabeth bite off pieces of her apple and feed them to me when she is really hungry, or making sure that my bottom is pointed towards my humans when I have a gas attack, or when I want to sit on a park bench or hang out in a field just until one of my humans starts checking emails and then I have an urgent need to continue our walk, and in the many other small ways that make them look at me and say “Really Wimsey? Really?” in between pronouncing me a “wretched animal” and threatening to commit Houndicide.

And then they have to walk with me on the street and have people say things like “What a nice dog!” and “He’s so well behaved!” I especially like it when I am staring at my humans and people coo, “Oh look, he loves you, “ when the more accurate interpretation is actually “Give me a cookie. Now.” And then there was the other day when I turned into an immobile Hound Lawn Ornament and refused to move for a full 30 minutes because I wished to watch two park employees repair a sidewalk. I found the process fascinating. Elizabeth not so much.

But of course I am very cute. Although I should point out that it was a mere 48 hours between a fresh-from-Hawaii-Elizabeth’s “I missed my Hound!” to a fresh-from -taking care- of- me Elizabeth’s call to Maria “Come get your Hound!”

Anyway, I think I will leave it there for this week. I am sorry for the older photos—the cold weather makes taking off gloves to take photographs an unappealing prospect for my negligent humans.

Until next time,

Wimsey, a very articulate Hound

 

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #329

Entry #329

January 10, 2014

Hello everyone, it’s me, Wimsey of the Arctic (or of Manhattan’s Upper West Side) with a quick and drooly post to let you know that I survived the Polar Whatchamacallit and sadly my new winter coat did too. No amount of producing my patented Wimsey Martyred Expression, which generally causes my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth to reconsider whatever it was that they were about to do to me, proved effective against the Dreaded Coat. And Elizabeth also survived, which is surprising since her love of extremely cold weather and her persistent chirps of “Isn’t this great!” caused those around her to think homicidal thoughts. But she had a few of her own this week as the extreme cold proved absolutely no deterrent to my intention to make our afternoon walks together as long as possible. Needless to say there are very few photos because taking one’s hand out of a glove, cold weather loving aside, was not high on anyone’s agenda.

Paradoxically, Elizabeth is leaving next Friday for her annual birthday Vacation From Me by going to Maui where it’s 80 degrees.  But I know how these vacations go—there is a short period of elation at not having to deal with me every day while Maria is at work that is quickly followed by frantic “I miss him” and “How is he?” texts to Maria. I remember last’s year’s vacation in Istanbul where she scoured pet shops in the trendy Cihangir neighborhood for gifts for me and failing to find anything suitable (or large), she stopped off in the UK to purchase me a white stuffed bear. The year before that it was Oslo where she shopped for Hurta coats for me and bought me a green hedgehog (I am inordinately fond of hedgehogs). The year before it was London where she eschewed the normal sites in favor of visiting and photographing pet shops in all the city’s neighborhoods (and purchased another hedgehog gift).  And from Santa Fe I received a fancy turquoise and silver southwestern collar that she spent an entire day selecting and a bag of freshly baked cookies from a famous dog bakery.  Hawaii should be equally fun—I am hoping for luau leftovers.

But I completely understand her missing me—I am such an enjoyable companion and I do everything from introducing my humans to exciting construction sites to helping them meet new people by invading strangers’ shopping bags to dragging them over hill and dale for some healthy exercise because I caught whiff of a mound of horse poop or a discarded sandwich (so much more rewarding than finding lost people!), etc. And after my busy afternoons out and about annoying the population of New York City and humiliating Elizabeth I have developed a wonderful routine that we both enjoy very much:

 

My Weekday Afternoon Routine

1. Come in from my afternoon walk. Bay at favorite elevator operator. Frighten everyone else.

2. Exit elevator. Fling drool on hallway walls.

3. Enter apartment.  Inventory toy pile.

4. Have long drink. Wipe face on Elizabeth, the couch or both.

5. Stare at Elizabeth until bowl of kibble is augmented with poultry du jour, pumpkin and baked yam.

6. Eat—making sure to store assorted bits of kibble in flews for subsequent postprandial distribution throughout the apartment.

7. Dig in toy pile for something to chew for dessert.

8. Failing to find anything acceptable, stare at Elizabeth until she gives me a new bully stick.

9. Chew bully stick making sure to use enough drool to firmly cement bits of it into the carpet.

10. Begin nap in inconvenient location.

11. Snore.

12. Fart.

13. Wake up an hour before next walk.

 

14. Stare at Elizabeth to come scratch me.

15. Have a refreshing drink of water. Wipe face on Elizabeth, the couch or both.

16. Sit on some part of Elizabeth and thwack her for more scratching.

17. Shred the newspapers she was trying to read.

18. Elizabeth eating apple--time for a snack! Demand she bite off chunks of it and hand feed them to me. (NB: I also demand to be spoon-fed her yogurt or hand fed individual nuts).

19.  Am bored. Is it time to go out yet? Shred some more papers. Squeak hedgehog.

20.  Help Elizabeth with lavatory activities. Attempt quality control of the results before lid rudely dropped on my snout.

21. Accelerate the getting dressed for walk process by snuffling Elizabeth’s bare skin.

22.  Maria is here! Bay at her and roll over so she can scratch my belly.

23. When everyone is ready, lie down on the carpet, shut my eyes and make snorey noises.

23. Open my eyes, get up from the carpet and cease making snorey noises only when a piece of turkey or a cream cookie or a piece of ostrich is produced.

24. Finally leashed up and ready to go—time to hunt Little Teddy, the neighbor’s terrified-of-me mini-doodle in the hallway.

25. Refuse to walk down building steps until someone feeds me a cookie.

26. Carefully consider which route to take while munching cookie. Decide on the one that my humans don’t want me to take.

Is it any wonder that Elizabeth misses me so much! And today she was making a call that needed to be on speakerphone so she could take notes and I lay down close by and began loudly snoring to add to the professional ambiance. But I don’t want to give you the impression that I reserve my efforts solely for Elizabeth—Maria comes in for more than her fair share too. Like when I monopolize the bed (a queen) and she ends up sleeping on the couch or when I sleep with my gaseous hind end pointing into the bedroom and my nose pointing out of the bedroom so I don’t have to smell it. Or deciding that I no longer wish to eat the salmon flavored Blue Buffalo kibble that Maria serves but prefer the new duck flavor kibble that Elizabeth feeds me and use my snout to flip the salmon kibble out of the bowl all over the floor. But don’t worry, it won’t go to waste—the mice like salmon kibble. Or when Maria is tired or hungry or in a hurry or all three and I saunter around the neighborhood for 20 minutes before I remember that I am supposed to pee. And while Elizabeth is away I will tow Maria over to her building on all our walks and demand immediate entry.  And there’s much more where that comes from that modesty forbids me from enumerating.

So today when Elizabeth was leaving to pick me up one of building staff requested that she make me bay when we return.  Elizabeth was forced to explain that “getting” me to do anything is not exactly how it works. Perhaps if I was supposed to be quiet he’s have a shot…. like when I was in the show ring, for instance, I was quite chatty. But he actually did get to hear me bay  (I saw my favorite elevator operator and had to make him aware that I was happy to see him) and he commented that “everyone loves that sound.”  Tell that to Little Teddy or to the people whom I’ve nearly sent into cardiac arrest or to the people still asleep at 6am when I see my Frenchie friend Pluto or to the people trying to have a conversation ringside when I was at a dog show.

Anyway, I think that I will leave it there for this week.  I can hardly wait to help Elizabeth with her trip preparations ---it will be warm in Maui and I am sure that she will appreciate some extra ventilation in her clothing.

Until next time,

Wimsey, a chillin’ Hound

 

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #328

 
Entry #328

December 27, 2013

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Hello Everyone, Wimsey here, coming to you from the post-Christmas lull that characterizes the Upper West Side of Manhattan following the frenzy of the holidays.  Things have been unusual around here because my primary human, Maria, is taking a week off from work and so I am spending all of my time at my apartment instead of being picked up at midday by her friend Elizabeth and coddled instead over at her apartment.

This hiatus is supposed to give Elizabeth a break from me and give her a chance to get all the things done that she alleges don’t get done because of me.  But she had to participate in my antlered pre-Christmas tow over to the vet’s to deliver a basket of Jacques Torres chocolate to thank the staff for taking such good care of me. (Or for putting up with me).  And then it was important for her to take a walk with me on Christmas Eve and of course she had to celebrate Christmas Day in the fashion that a Hound of my discernment demands---an afternoon spent out and about in the park. In this case, it was two parks, as after a walk in Central Park I decided that I also wanted to walk in Riverside Park.

I apologize for the paucity of pictures this week, but we were all having such a good time that it seemed a shame to ruin it (for me) by pulling out the camera or the phone; And my humans do get a bit tired of all those pictures they take of the side of my head or my rear end or pictures where I close my eyes or squint in an objectionable way that they think makes me look mean, or pictures where I drop my head between my shoulder blades in a manner that suggests that there is vulture in my pedigree or those in which I elevate my snout such that the my dominant feature becomes my nostrils, etc. And you will notice that I seem to be wearing yet another new coat. Actually this blue coat is an old gift from a friend that had to be resurrected this week due to my winning record in our bouts of fleece wrestling.  My new, expensive coat from Chilly Dog in Canada has just arrived and Elizabeth is eager to bring it over for a fitting which, given the idiosyncratic nature of bloodhound proportions, has every chance of turning into a non-fitting.

But I digress.  So, after endlessly complaining about how I eat up all her time, Elizabeth somehow feels it necessary to call Maria every afternoon to ask if it’s time for my walk yet.  This means that I have been taking long afternoon walks with both my humans, thus turning every day into Sunday, which pleases me greatly.  And I was in such good form yesterday that I had to be escorted home on the Heinous Gentle Leader.  This had something to do with the fact that I kept refusing to walk until Maria gave me a Biljac Goober and when I subsequently did walk I kept endeavoring to make the acquaintance of a very realistic stuffed squirrel that was residing in the pet store bag that she was carrying.

But I am getting ahead of myself. One of the delightful aspects of the two-person weekday afternoon walk is that I get to show Maria all the places that I normally tow Elizabeth to on our afternoons together-- one of those places being my favorite pet shop, Unleashed, where I am a well-known regular. And whilst Elizabeth and I were making our appointed rounds so I could sniff all the bags of kibble and cat food (the next best thing to sniffing actual cats) Maria purchased the BilJacs which have been much missed since chewy.com stopped carrying them. And while she was about it, she decided to purchase the squirrel as well because my toy pile at her apartment was looking a bit dated. When I searched the aisles and  “found” her (I am not a bloodhound for nothing) she was also unfortunately choosing some powdered digestive enzymes in a misguided attempt to reduce the noxious fumes that regularly emanate from my rear.  Good luck with that and pass the Febreze.

Anyway, after I exhorted a cookie from the bakery bar I continued towing in a southerly direction.  Elizabeth knowledgeably informed Maria that this meant that we were going to visit the Time Warner Center to inspect people’s packages and then visit the Construction Sites of the Far West Side.  Accordingly I headed to Central Park instead. I pride myself on never doing what is expected.  It was at this point (and after I had determined that the pastry stand at the park entrance was closed) that I commenced operations on the bag from Unleashed. This, as stated, resulted in the application of the HGL and in Elizabeth wondering what exactly it was about me that she missed.  Like many of life’s highly anticipated pleasures, I am much better in the abstract.

Here are a few other pictures from this week:

This is me finding a new food truck. It was serving some tasty smelling Korean food which engendered some enhanced drool production and some prodigious and far-reaching drool flinging as a result. Service left something to be desired, however, as in spite of loudly placing my order several times, no nosh was forthcoming.

Now this looks like one of the many picture of me parking myself on a park bench to avoid the inevitable homeward progression. But if you look at my feet you will see that it is actually a picture of me parking myself on two benches to avoid the inevitable homeward progression.  I love to do this because 1) it gets my humans’ knickers all in a twist about the prospect of me falling and there is much squealing at, pleading with and protecting of yours truly and 2) they can’t use the leash to pull me off of the bench (es) without risking injury to me which causes an indefinite halt to the proceedings.

And finally, I came across this sign and as is frequently the case with Hounds who are being told to be quiet, this happened.

Also not shown this week is the traditional Poking of, Leaning on and Standing on my Head for Christmas tourists.  My humans think it prudent to focus on my activities on those occasions lest something untoward—like major dry cleaning bills or a lawsuit—occur.

And when I am absent for even a brief amount of time, the men who staff Elizabeth’s building ask after me. One of them always asks if I am dead.  The “yet” can be inferred.  Apparently my large size and loud baying take their toll on the nerves. Another of them asked if Elizabeth had found a home for me.  Considering that, as befits a champion Hound such as myself, I basically have two homes (and the toy piles to prove it!) and several more if you count my breeders, Elizabeth was puzzled.  Someone had told him about Elizabeth’s work with shelter dogs and he put two and two together and got a spectacularly incorrect five.  He was obviously not working in the building when Elizabeth actually did foster shelter dogs. To be charitable, they didn’t look like me.  I look like I should be out finding lost children, they looked like they should be out finding drug deals.  And I am guessing that the sight of a small woman holding the leash of a powerful, drug dealer type dog struck a different kind of terror into the hearts of the building staff.  The irony is that Elizabeth never had any trouble getting those dogs to obey her whereas I am another kettle of rawhides entirely.  She says that’s because they were “regular dogs” her definition of which is  “Not Bloodhounds.” Fortunately for me, neither of my humans has any ego investment in whether I listen to them---otherwise I really would be dead. And it can’t be said too many times-- it’s a good thing I am cute.

Anyway, now that we are finished with Christmas the New Year looms. As befitting a Hound of my stature I make a few New Year’s resolutions none of which I share with my humans because that would be telling and might also create some unwanted counter measures. Suffice it to say that all my resolutions involve being a better Hound which is to say being a worse dog.  My humans’ resolutions generally center around hoping that my resolutions don’t involve too much damage, expense or embarrassment.

But in addition to the New Year, January is birthday season around here.  Both my humans have January birthdays and Elizabeth generally celebrates by taking a vacation from me in locations that are not amenable to her continuously popping over to walk me. Last year it was Istanbul and this year it is likely to be Hawaii (she has to go really, really far to get away from me!).  Maria will celebrate in a more sensible fashion by buying me a new toy and sitting on the couch scratching me.  Both my humans are likely to be very busy in January which means that full blog posts might be a bit thin on the ground next month.  If I can’t post, I will try to keep everyone updated via Facebook (you can find me by friending Maria Szabo if we aren’t friends already. Look for the Maria Szabo with my picture).

I think I will leave it there for this week.  I hope everyone has a happy New Year.  (I would wish people a safe New Year also but this would mean that they wouldn’t be allowed to be around large, space filling, leash-dragging paw thwacking bloodhounds). 

Until next year,

Wimsey, A New Year, The Same Hound (alas)