Wimsey's Blog:Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #156

Entry # 156
February 12, 2010

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here coming to you from the Upper West Side of Manhattan where finally, finally we’ve had a bit of snow. But you wouldn’t think “a bit of snow” is what we were in for given the mass panic around here. Fueled by alarming statements from The Weather Channel (maybe it should be re-catorigized as an action adventure show) about monster storms and snowpocalypses—“snow storm and blizzard” being deemed far too tame to describe the actual dramatic process of snow falling—New Yorkers flocked to supermarkets in locust like droves to strip the shelves bare. Fairway ran short of milk, bread and eggs causing my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth to ponder whether the threat of snow engendered the massive making of French toast. I mean this is New York City where diligent shop keepers and restaurateurs will happily deliver all manner of comestibles to its citizens at all hours of the day or night, so it was hard to imagine that a bit of snow would cause the wheels of commerce to grind to such a halt. Elizabeth was particularly incensed to find two local wine stores (you know who you are) closed in the evening. Consuming snow induced wine and cheese sounds like a whole lot better of an idea than being surrounded by mounds of French toast.

But of course there was no panic chez moi—the ladies being armed with every conceivable piece of winter gear, (and I too posses a wardrobe of winter coats and oily spray for the protection of my delicate feeties). And in the event of a power outage Maria would have had me to keep her warm and to provide entertainment far superior to anything she could find on TV. So anticipation was high around here for some exciting weather, which in the end turned out to be not a monster storm, or a snowpocalypse or even a mundane blizzard, but just some snow, most of which was summarily removed by the next day, much to my chagrin.

The morning of the snow I was at the vet’s office spending C notes in profusion during the process of getting re-checked in an anatomical area that modesty forbids me to discuss (everything was fine). My apparent fondness for the vet (the ladies are convinced I develop ailments with the express purpose of visiting as much as possible) led my humans to once again give thanks for Embrace Pet Insurance which I would highly recommend (www.embracepetinsruance.com). My only point of contention is that when a reimbursement check went astray they sent a Starbucks card as an apology and I would have preferred a bully stick. Oh, and on the subject of canine medicine, my humans have found a wonderful cure for diarrhea—it turns out that the appearance of a fecal kit from the vet is guaranteed to induce the production of a beautiful, solid piece of poop.

But I digress. So anyway, I get out of the vet’s office and although it’s snowing all there seems to be on the street is slush, which is not pleasing to one of my non-boot wearing disposition. But then, we get to the park and magic happens! So much snow everywhere that I could hardly contain myself. It is for this reason that Elizabeth called a halt to the proceedings to strap on her newest find—stabilicers from LL Bean in the hope that they would provide sufficient purchase and traction for her to remain upright while attached to Snowdog Wimsey. Normally due to the cowardly interests of my humans in staying alive and out of the emergency room I am walked on the heinous gentle leader when there is snow. So you can imagine the trepidation with which Elizabeth, even newly stabiliced as she was, reluctantly removed the gentle leader and hooked me up to my prong—me, a mass of baying, raring to go 130 lbs of well-muscled Hound. And we were off! Although I lost my near mythic ability to convert the vertical to the horizontal the freedom to run, yank and tow unhampered by the gentle leader was well worth it. I am therefore endorsing the use of the stabilicers in my own interest.

Well the park was full of hearty people enjoying the conditions and of course enjoying watching (and listening to) me enjoy the conditions. I was photographed more times than Lady Gaga and those without cameras supplied a considerable amount of vocal approbation to the proceedings. This group asked to meet me, but then I was vocally eager to be on my way. Lacking sufficient canine companionship I was forced to play bow to humans which, mentally challenged as they are, they seemed not to comprehend. There is nothing as stimulating to a Hound as the sight of fields of fresh powder (well OK, maybe the sight of fields of fresh liver) and in the end Elizabeth was forced to run with me through the stuff. This led to some residual tenderness in her quadriceps which I was happy to help alleviate the next day with some scream inducing Wimsey shiatsu.

Well the snow was pretty much the highlight of the week except for the fact that Maria’s mother, hoping to mitigate New York’s chronic famine, sent another whacking great box of baked goods. And this time she cut a goodly number of these delicious pastries into Hound sized bites for yours truly. Not only are these things extraordinarily delicious but they are baked with love. But that’s probably because she’s never actually met me--although plans are underway for a spring expedition northwards to rectify the situation. An SUV suitable in size for one of my generous proportions and massive suite of luggage has already been reserved. Maria had suggested renting a compact, but then Elizabeth remembered the ease with which my chattels and I filled up an entire Jeep Commander and realism triumphed over economy. I am just hoping that further maternal acquaintance does not staunch the southerly flow of baked goods.

And Sunday was the Super Bowl (although my humans mostly watched the Puppy Bowl) which gave rise to fantasies of: Who dat on the 20 yard line? Dat Wimsey, a big, stinky Hound dat stole the ball.

Anyway this week there have been no more objectionable comments about me being well behaved-- although I am actually quite biddable. As in, what do you bid to be allowed to put on my walking equipment and what do you bid to get me to stop lap dancing and of course what to do you bid to be able to give me bath (do I hear a pound turkey or a hunk of roast beef?) And speaking of baths, it has been rather a long time since I had one owing to the cold and various scheduling conflicts but one is in the works. Apparently Maria put on her hat the other day (and not one of the ones I wear either) and realized it smelled like me. She’s worried that the emanation of Houndish odors in the workplace might be inimical to career development.

And of course Sunday is Valentine’s Day which is sad for my humans who, amazingly, remain single—I can’t imagine why:

Guy: Hi Maria. Would you like to go out some time?

Maria: That would be nice. When did you have in mind?

Guy: How about Saturday?

Maria: Oh. It’s Wimsey’s night to watch “It’s Me or the Dog” He likes to root for the dog.

Guy: OK. Friday then.Maria: That’s Dog Whisperer night and if I’m not around to restrain him Wimsey will pee on Cesar Millan.

Guy: Thursday?

Maria: That’s Wimsey’s massage night.

Guy: Wednesday?

Maria: Wednesday is unsuccessful grooming night.

Guy: What’s unsuccessful grooming night?

Maria: I try to clip Wimsey’s toenails and clean out his ears but he doesn’t let me.

Guy: What’s the point?

Maria: Well he does like to get his teeth brushed. Perhaps you’d like to come over and help me?

Guy: Is Elizabeth free?


Well, you get the idea. I am rather an all consuming kind of creature so on Sunday I will be the ladies’ Valentine. Just like on all the other days of the week.

And then on Monday and Tuesday there is the Westminster Kennel Club Dog show and although mercifully I won’t be there, Maria and Elizabeth will be cheering on the Hounds. I showed at Westminster for three years and for those of you who haven’t been to Westminster or a dog show, here is how it goes:

Wimsey’s Westminster Diary

Being Benched: Lots of people to admire me. Plenty of unsuspecting derrieres to goose. Giving newspaper and TV interviews. Pretty good gig so far.

Getting Ready: Getting sprayed with smelly stuff and wiped with chamois cloth. I seem to be very shiny. Need some dirt to roll in but none handy. Might try the shavings in the poop pen. My prong has been replaced with a piece of string. My humans looking terrified at this. Elizabeth wearing unflattering green show clothes. Nice jacket though. Suede shows up my drool rather well. If my muzzle gets wiped one more time with that wash cloth we’re gonna have a rousing game of kill the towel.

Waiting To Go On At Ringside: Oh good. Lots of dogs to sniff. Lovely group of bitches too. Hey, what do you mean no sniffing butts. I protest. Stop telling me to be quiet. Just let me go over there and sniff those dogs and I’ll shut up. I know everyone is looking at me. It’s a dog show. Aren't they supposed to be looking at me? What do you mean glaring isn’t looking. And pinning me against that wall won’t help.

The Entrance: Hurray! We’re on the move! If I gallop fast enough I’ll catch up with that dog’s butt ahead of me. Don’t even think of trying to make me trot. You’ve only got that piece of string around my neck remember.

The Stack: Stop playing with my legs! I’ve got four of them and every time you move one I’ll just re-position the others so I can stand in the most unattractive position possible. It’ll make me stand out from the others.

The Examination: Oh look I’m going over there to meet this nice lady. Hey lady, want to see my stack dance? Or how about a belly rub. While you’re back there would you give my testicles a scratch. The spray made them itchy. Mind if I rub my nose up and down your body while you’re busy feeling me up. Oops. Elizabeth ‘s a bit slow with that drool rag isn’t she. Sorry about that. But at least your jacket’s not suede.

The Down and Back: Hurray! Moving again. No dogs to gallop to, so I’ll just lumber along at the pace* (* for those unfamiliar with this gait, this is where I move both legs on the same side of my body). So much nicer a gait than the trot, don’t you think. Stop calling me Frankendog. And stop making me pick up my head. I’m a Hound. My nose belongs on the ground. I don’t care what it does to my top line. Why are you trying to stop me in front of the judge. I want to keep going. See how I’m straining against the piece of string around my neck.

The Wait: OK so now while we’re standing around while the judge is playing with the other dogs I think it’s a good time to socialize with my neighbors and maybe do a little more singing. Don’t think feeding me liver is going to stop me either. I can multitask—eating and misbehaving are easy to do at the same time. I’m a Hound.

The Cut: Your trying to stack me again. I thought we had this conversation before about how I am not going to do it. The judge is walking up and down the line pointing to dogs that aren’t me. Hurray. I win. I get to leave the ring and goose, and bay and fling drool the way nature intended.

I was quite a success as a show dog. Just not with my humans or the judges. But I made other people with bad dogs feel better and made Elizabeth look like an idiot, so it was all good. Anyway, on that note I will take my leave for the week. If you watch Westminster on TV think of me and thank your lucky stars you aren’t there taking me into the ring.

Until next time,

Wimsey, the people’s choice

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #155

Entry #155
February 5, 2010

Hello everyone, it’s me Wimsey coming to you from the almost storm tossed reaches of the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Well I was all geared up for this monster storm that was supposed to arrive and apparently it’s going to hit to our south, leaving New York City with a measly four inches. I mean what kind of storm is that—barely enough to cover my giant paws but just enough to get me sufficiently wet and dirty so that my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have to keep the fluffy pile of Wimsey towels handy after every walk. Now don’t get me wrong, I appreciate a towel massage as much as the next Hound but I’d prefer a foot or two of snow in which to frolic and into which I can drag my humans. Besides my humans claim to have these things from LL Bean to put on their boots to keep them upright; I have been anxious to pit my skills against these heinous anti-Hound devices.

And speaking of frolicking check out this handsome guy—he’s a doodle named Manny who we met on our walk this Sunday (you can tell it’s Sunday because I am wearing my special Sunday best southwestern collar that Elizabeth bought me in Santa Fe) and although he looks enormous, Manny’s really a petite lad weighing in at a mere 90lbs. The rest of him is fur. Perhaps I should consider a hair transplant. Anyway, Manny is in the habit of finding and bringing home assorted sticks (his thoughtful owner allows him to keep his stick collection in the hall) acquired during his park perambulations. Well obviously inspired by the ambitious spirit of The Hound, Manny found a rather large hunk of a tree that he commenced dragging in a homeward direction. But after they were done laughing my humans started thinking about what they would have to store in their apartments were I allowed to bring home my treasured finds:

Police officers (mainly from the 20th precinct)

Raccoons

Ducks (and geese)

Italian Tourists

Tourists, misc.

Squirrels

Ladies purses

Stolen water bottles

Other people’s cars

Bitches (assorted)

Bruno the Rottweiler

Shopping bags (food items)

Shopping bags (non food items)

Central Park

Of course with regard to this latter item, I do manage to bring in as much of the park as possible—leaves, mud, twigs, etc. as well as assorted unidentified matter whose origins the ladies hope are vegetal in origin. But unlike Manny’s understanding human, Maria and Elizabeth have selfishly denied me the storage I need for my acquisitions.

But on the subject of police officers, Elizabeth and I ran across one into whose squad car I had once tried to climb and who wanted to know if I would make a good dog for his family. Elizabeth would have fallen over laughing except she was too busy trying to prevent me from doing unsanitary things to his clothing. He previously had German Shepherds so a bloodhound would be rather a shock to the system with regard to the respect and obedience aspects of life with a canine (apparently my trying to climb into his squad car had not give him a hint). As brevity was urgently called for owing to the fact that I decided to bay furiously to hasten our departure for the park, Elizabeth refrained from going into her usual detail and merely inquired as to whether he had a good divorce lawyer.

Anyway, it has been a quiet week here, the winter weather seems to have denuded the park of many of its admiring tourists, which is why I was so hoping for an enlivening blizzard. But I did receive a new giraffe, a dinosaur and a bird, sadly all of the stuffed variety. With regard to the bird, this is Elizabeth’s contribution to my toy collection and she is considerate enough to put it in places where I can steal it during my afternoon visits (stolen objects being so much more satisfying than the regular kind).

And then today Elizabeth and I ran into a woman who, observing my unusually calm demeanor, declared that if she didn’t know better she would think I was Wimsey’s twin and that the real Wimsey was the evil twin. Now I am starting to get a complex—there has also been a vicious rumor in Elizabeth’s building that I am well behaved. Where was this lady yesterday when I was forced on numerous occasions to engage the Wimsey Tractor Beam to prevent Elizabeth from going in the direction in which she wanted to go? Or when I pooped on a steep hill covered in such dense ivy that picking up the poop required excavatory skills not seen since the California gold rush? Or my insistence on sitting in laps into which I manifestly don’t fit and preventing my humans from reading books, newspapers or watching TV all because I have an urge to be scratched? Having endured the accusation that I was well behaved I was forced shortly thereafter to smack some guy who was petting me rather smartly in the nards. Well behaved indeed!

And like any self respecting New Yorker with a complex perhaps I should go into therapy:

Hound Therapist: How can I help you?

Wimsey: Did you learn that phrase from that arch villain, Cesar Millan?

Hound Therapist: No. I’m just trying to act nice so you’ll spill your guts enough to come back for endless $200/ hour sessions that are really 45 minutes.

Wimsey: OK. Just so long as this is not about rules, boundaries and limitations.

Hound Therapist: Certainly not. Did you not notice that I am a Hound. Rules, boundaries and limitations are for humans.

Wimsey: Well, then. People are starting to say that I am well behaved and this is eroding my self confidence which I fear might actually make me well behaved.

Hound Therapist: That doesn’t sound good. And how does this make you feel?

Wimsey: Like a Golden Retriever.

Hound Therapist: Yes, I can see why that would be a problem. They use Golden Retrievers as service dogs, don’t they? And the only things a Hound should serve is himself. You can’t really see a Hound in a service role can you? Or at least not without major mayhem.

Wimsey: Exactly. That’s why I am worried. Maybe I’ll get signed up to do things that require me obey humans. I mean, just look what they did to the planet, so imagine where listening to them could lead. In any case obedience is a violation of the Laws of (Hound) Nature.

Hound Therapist: Well, there’s no smell without poop, so have you been being well behaved? Coming when called for instance? Or letting your humans eat in peace?

Wimsey: Certainly not!

Hound Therapist: Well humans do engage in a lot of wishful thinking with respect to their dogs.

Wimsey: Yes, like “my Hound loves me.” That one always cracks me up.

Hound Therapist: Well you are pretty cute. Perhaps you are a victim of projection—you know, anything that looks that cute can’t possibly be bad. Acknowledging your bad behavior might force them to confront the fallacies of their belief system. They want to see you as the faithful, trusty Hound, devoted to your humans.

Wimsey: Well that’s good to know because in that case I have a bridge in Brooklyn that I want to sell them.


Anyway, this week was also Groundhog Day, but since New York City is not well stocked in the groundhog department, Mayor Bloomberg asked me to fill in:

Anderson Cooper: Hello everybody and thanks for joining us. Today we are in Central Park for a most unusual Groundhog Day.

Wolf Blitzer: That’s right Anderson. Mayor Bloomberg is hoping to curry favor with New Yorkers dismayed by cuts in public transportation, the lack of jobs and the fact that their homes are worth a month’s worth of groceries at Fairway by naming Wimsey an honorary groundhog.

Anderson: Well, he does spend a lot of time rolling around on the ground, especially if mud or decaying leaves are involved, and as to the hog part, we hear he can eat his weight in turkey. But how is this going to work?

Wolf: Well, if Wimsey wakes up and pees on that tree, we are going to have six more weeks of winter.

Anderson: What’s that sound? Is somebody revving a motorcycle?

Wolf: No, that’s Wimsey snoring. He’s showing no signs of waking up.

Anderson: Yes, we understand that he is in the process of taking his official Afternoon Nap from which he is never to be disturbed.

Wolf: Look! A park ranger is going to wake him up. Let’s listen.

Park Ranger: Hello Wimsey. If you wake up so the media can get their story in time for the 6 o’clock news, Mayor Bloomberg will throw you an all you can eat dinner in his refrigerator.

Wimsey: Go away. I’m napping.

Park Ranger: But you have to get up. You’re this year’s designated groundhog.

Wimsey: Rub my belly.

Anderson: Is that like “kiss my ass”?

Wolf: No. I think he wants the ranger to rub his belly.

Anderson: Well, different strokes, etc.

Park Ranger: Well if I rub your belly will you get up?

Wimsey: Probably not. But do I look like a groundhog? Although they do sound like something I would like to eat carpaccio of.

Park Ranger: Well you are cute and furry like a groundhog. Although I am guessing no one is going to hoist you in the air like Punxutawney Phil. At least not without a crane.

Wimsey: Well what is so urgent that I have to curtail my Afternoon Nap? Has a truck load of liver gone missing in the park or something?

Park Ranger: No. We are trying to determine if there will be six more weeks of winter.

Wimsey: Have you tried looking at a calendar?

Park Ranger: No. We think the groundhog method is more accurate. And it’s popular with the politicians who enjoy being photographed with annoyed wildlife.

Wimsey: You do realize I am not a groundhog.

Park Ranger: Look, I don’t make the rules, I just follow orders. If Mayor Bloomberg says you’re a groundhog then you’re a groundhog.

Wimsey: Groundhogs bite, don’t they?

Anderson: The Park Ranger seems to be backing away.

Wolf: But look! Wimsey’s getting up. He’s stretching. What’s that smell!

Anderson: His post-nap flatulence. It’s traditional.

Wolf: The cameras are rolling. Mayor Bloomberg is standing next to the tree looking on with interest. Wimsey’s heading off to that tree. This is so exciting! Will we have six more weeks of winter?

Anderson: We might. But Mayor Bloomberg is going to have a hell of a dry cleaning bill.


Well I think on that note I will take my leave. I must go outside and begin my snow dance. It’s one of the favorite dances of my Native American Ancestor, Dances With Kibble and involves much ritual lifting of the legs and flinging of the leaves and making joyful noises.

Until next time,

Wimsey, The Well Behaved Hound NOT