Friday, August 24, 2012

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #274

Entry #274
August 24, 2012

Hello Everyone, it’s me, Wimsey, coming to you from the waning days of summer here on Manhattan’s Upper West Side where the shorter, slightly cooler days have provided ample inducement for me to take lengthier and more than just slightly annoying walks.  My human Maria and her friend Elizabeth both have ceased lamenting the hot, heady days of July when getting me out of the air conditioning required powers of persuasion wholly dependent on fistfuls of cookies. Days when I’d poke my head out of the door of my apartment building and assume the “Oh hell no!” attitude so beloved by humans foolish enough to live with bloodhounds. 

Now my humans are all “those were the good old days” as I resume my desire to spent long, lazy afternoons in Central Park preventing Elizabeth (in whose company I spend my time when Maria is at work) from actually getting anything of a professional nature accomplished.  Particularly those things that involve the computer and deadlines. And because it is still a tad too warm for my liking I exhibit a marked (or maniacal depending on your point of view) interest in visiting the pet shops of the Upper West Side to cool off and do a little olfactory shopping.  It turns out that there is any excellent itinerary whereby I can visit 4 pet stores on the same walk.  

Then there was my afternoon walk depicted in some of this week’s photos whereby I tried to visit an exhibit at the American Museum of Natural History Planetarium, tried to break into the 20th Precinct, met some old friends on the street—one of whom, the Broadway Jewelry Lady--likes to feed me copious quantities of snacks, then I demanded that Elizabeth buy me a refreshing cup of Grom Gelato (brought to me personally by the gelatoista as I am not actually permitted in the store) and finally ran into Pluto my  young French bulldog buddy and announced the fact loudly and at length to the neighborhood at large.

So as you may surmise it has been an excellent week (at least for me) all around.  Even the news contributed its share of entertainment this week with pictures of a naked and cavorting Prince Harry splashed about the Internet for the delectation of multitudes of females. 

Now apart from violating U.S. law which clearly states that anything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, I have to say that I personally have always felt an affinity with this devil may care prince—he is like the bloodhound of the royal family—charming, not bad to look at and behaving himself admirably in places like the show ring.  But then you turn your back for one second and wham—strip billiards, Nazi uniforms and the Sunday roast making an assisted exit out the kitchen door! 

And the fact that it was strip billiards and not strip poker I think lends the incident a distinctly toney, more upscale air---like Colonel Mustard could have joined the fun at any moment.  And something tells me that just as we bloodhounds conveniently lose our ability to understand the word “sit” when doing so is inconvenient, Prince Harry’s suffered a similar lapse in his billiard skills.  

 Sadly I understand that the prince is being given a time out in his crate-- royal families, like bloodhound owners, sometimes suffer from a surfeit in the hilarious antics department. Of course if he were a French prince instead of an English one his exploits would have been celebrated and most likely have caused an immediate run on billiard tables and tickets to Vegas.

But speaking of hilarious antics, what week would be complete without another visit to the vet to help him build his dream house.  It appears that I have an infected lick granuloma on my left paw—a condition requiring a snazzy new antibiotic and (hilarity alert) my humans to apply warm, medicated compresses four times a day.  Now it is very easy for a vet to look at a bloodhound and prescribe four foot compresses a day and equally easy for a bloodhound’s humans to look at a bloodhound and know that there is going to be a lot of gin in their future. Oh, did I mention that after the compresses there is a special ointment that needs to be applied?

I must admit that the first few compresses kind of devolved into an Xtrme Bloodhound Wrestling competition until I decided that a more fruitful approach was to demand the non-stop scratching of my favorite spots and repeated turkey feeding throughout the process. I kind of lie there like the Grand Hound Pasha being rubbed, and cooed at and fed and having all my wants attended to. I don’t know if my foot is getting any better but fortunately lick granulomas are easy enough to create should this one be so inconvenient as to heal prematurely.

And in addition to wayward Princes whose family clearly has no sense of humor, the news is also full of the new Mars gizmo Curiosity. I pretty much like everything about the gadget, but especially its name. I too am curious:

Things I am Curious About

I am curious about how many minutes I can play squeaky tennis ball soccer before Elizabeth yells, “I hate you” and calls Maria to come pick me up forthwith.

I am curious about how many pet shops I can drag my humans to in the course of a single walk.

I am curious about how many times I can visit these pet shops and sniff all the merchandise before they post a “No Wimsey” sign on the door.

I am curious about how many times my humans can grit their teeth without breaking them when someone tells them how well behaved I am.

I am curious about how many cups of Grom Gelato I can eat at one time.

I am curious about how many people I can wake up in the morning when I announce that I am now going out for my walk.

I am curious about how many pieces of miscellaneous organic material I can snatch on the street without my humans noticing until they have to deal with the gastric consequences.

I am curiously about how many small dogs and humans waiting at cross walks that I can terrorize by baying at the light to turn green.
I am curious about how much time and money my humans spend to de-drool their walls, furnishings, floors, clothes and hair.

I am curious about the annual cost of beverages wasted because people dump them so I can play with the bottle.

I am curious about why my humans squeal when I stick my tongue or my nose in their food.

I am curious about how many turkeys I consume in a week.

I am curious about why my humans think saying “No Wimsey” has any effect on my behavior despite years of evidence to the contrary.

Of course my humans are curious too—they would like to know things like how come I am obsessed with bathing in the Lake in Central Park for which there is a big fine but have no interest in bathing in any other lake for which there is no fine.

Anyway, I intend to keep a close watch on the stuff going on on Mars, principally because it is none of my business, which as a Hound makes it manifestly and completely my business. I find that the most satisfying experiences in life involve things that no one thinks are my business except me (other people’s food, the contents of their bags, the contents of their closets, the state of their underwear, etc.) 

 But speaking of business I received an intriguing offer in my inbox the other day from a company called Apparently you can send them a photo and they will make a canvas wall hanging from it (if you use the code BLOGLOVE2012 you get 50% off).  Now as you can well imagine the state of the walls in Maria and Elizabeth’s apartments are a testament to my prodigious drool production. And as attractive as I find my abstract expressionist drool art homage to Jackson Pollock, it occurs to me that perhaps I should persuade the ladies to redecorate in Early Wimsey.  My humans have many thousands of photographs of me (embarrassing but true)—certainly enough to completely cover their walls and ceilings in an assortment of canvases bearing likenesses of me!  Can you imagine the beauty of such an interior design scheme? And then when the inevitable drool flinging occurs it will simple add a touch of realism to the tableau.

Well I think I will leave it there for this week.  I have an urgent date with a squeaky tennis ball and Elizabeth has a date with a large glass of gin.

Until next time,

Wimsey, The Prince Among Hounds

Friday, August 17, 2012

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #273

 Entry #273
August 17, 2012

Hello Everyone, it’s me, Wimsey, coming to you from the Upper West Side of Manhattan where summer is just rolling along and I am just towing along followed by my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth who appear to be growing weary of my summertime antics.  Prominent among them is my propensity to visit the water features of Central Park and to take my now habitual cooling mud bath in a section of the Stream.  My humans have discovered that walking around the park with a mud encrusted Hound has added a new layer of challenge to counseling passersby who wish to pet me. My humans think I should come with my very own black box warning like the ones pharmaceutical companies have to put on drugs that might result in a sudden loss of viability.

Wimsey’s Black (and Tan) Box Warning

YES, you may pet the Hound unless:
                 The Hound is following a line of scent leading to a discarded, rotting sandwich or another equally desirable comestible;

                 The Hound is on the trail of a fast moving, small animal to whose futile pursuit he is entirely devoted irrespective of years of negative results;

              The Hound prefers the person standing next to you for reasons that may include but are not limited to: the carrying of a snatchable or filchible plastic water bottle, the carrying of an item that is edible, was edible or could potentially be edible, the carrying of a bag, purse, satchel or other conveyance whose contents must be investigated, the fact that said person smells like a cat, the fact that said person appears easy to knock over, the fact that said person appear hesitant to accept the attentions of a giant, gregarious Hound;

             The Hound is heading towards a snack shop, a pet shop, a gelato stand or a small dog that requires baying at and terrorizing;

             The Hound is not in the mood;


     Petting or otherwise interacting with the Hound may have unintended consequences that include but are not limited to:

            Getting hit in the face with a sticky, viscous physiological fluid  (aka, “drool”); 

            Getting hit in the face with a sticky solid, non-physiological  
              material, such as mud, rocks, twigs, leaves and miscellaneous organic and     inorganic matter (aka, “crap”)  with  which the viscous fluid is infused;

           Subjecting your clothing to the acquisition of the partial contents of the          streambed in which the Hound has been taking his mud bath;

             Subjecting your face, arms, legs, clothing and undergarments to the   onslaught of an itchy coating of spikey black and tan hairs;

            Subjecting your body to the acquisition of an anti-social odor (aka “Hound     stink”);

            A ruptured tympanic membrane.

Of course living with a Hound should itself come with a black box warning.  Or several.  Nevertheless there are brave people in the park that are willing to take the risk of meeting me anyway.  Here I am with a lovely group of ladies from Ohio who initially stopped my humans to ask how to get to Belvedere Castle via the Ramble (not very easily) until I inserted myself into the process.  And of course explaining how to get to Belvedere Castle through the maze of the Ramble is always more challenging when one is struggling to be heard above the sound of a loud Hound who is stimulated by the proximity of tuna sandwiches at the Boat House Café.
And in other exciting news, I received a jumbo shipment of assorted snacks that was purchased for me from the vast selection at Mr. Chewy. Elizabeth loves to order things online but apparently feels less guilty if the stuff is for me.  It’s probably the only time that I am happy to be of service to her so I hope she enjoys it. 

Some old favorites snacks are returning--Three Dog Bakery’s Classic Dog Wafers and Newman’s Own Organic Salmon and Sweet Potato heart shaped biscuits-- as well as many new ones, including the current rabbit, ginger and apple cookies.  All of this means that Elizabeth’s bookshelves don’t contain books they contain my dog snacks (Who wants to look at The Complete Works of William Shakespeare when you can gaze upon a box of Wag More Bark Less Peanut Butter Cookies—although I am sure the Shakespeare is delicious too) owing to the fact that New York City apartments are notoriously short on storage space. Also if Elizabeth tries to give me one of the Old Mother Hubbard default cookies it gets spat out with an appropriate expression of indignation (we Hounds being blessed with highly expressive faces).   Maria, on the other hand, is freely permitted to give me all the Old Mother Hubbard cookies she likes because I know that she doesn’t have the other ones.  Contrary to what people who try to teach me obedience commands think, I am not stupid. I’m just selectively intelligent. 

Anyway, the Olympics ended this week but after two weeks even the most exciting events got a tad repetitive.  A fellow Tweeter suggested that rowing could be made more interesting by having the competitors wear pirate clothes and have the boats carry small cannons.  This got me thinking that the addition of Hounds could also liven up the event.

Wimsey’s Olympic Events

Synchronized Swimming (silly sport alert): So called “deck work”  (prancing in unison) to be enlivened by the presence of a trainer trying to get two Hounds to do anything at the same time. Hounds to be rewarded by getting to play with all those waving legs in the water and by licking off the swimmer’s heavy makeup.

Swimming: At least one lap to be swum entirely by the athlete’s Hound in pursuit of a squirrel being towed on a raft.

Water Polo: While two human teams compete to score goals an aquatic Hound team enters the fray to steal the ball and eat it instead (for added appeal the Hounds also get to wear those cool aviator swim caps and goggles).

Canoeing and Kayaking: Athletes compete not only to complete the course in the fastest time but also to keep their boats upright whilst an exuberant Hound enjoys a vigorous game with his squeaky tennis ball.

Rhythmic Gymnastics (silly sport alert):  Ladies compete to try and keep those twirly banners from being turned into tug toys by a Hound who outweighs them (which makes most of the Hound Group eligible to compete).

Regular Gymnastics: Vault:  The path to the apparatus to be littered with a random assortment of Hounds enjoying their rawhides. Just like trying to make a cup of tea in the kitchen.

Regular Gymnastics: Balance Beam: An already challenging event made more exciting by the presence of a Hound who likes to lick toes.

Beach Volley Ball: Whilst one Hound ups the danger quotient by digging holes in the sand another ups the sex appeal factor by trying to remove those little bikinis.

Dressage:  A Hound doing freestyle competes next to the horse.
Eventing: Horses and riders follow a course set by a Hound chasing Usain Bolt smeared with liver.

Badminton: High jumping, shuttlecock stealing Hounds level the playing field by making it easy for all teams to lose, not just the Chinese, Indonesians and South Koreans.

Boxing: Boxers are encouraged to speed up their footwork by the presence of teams of ankle nipping dachshunds.

Wrestling: Competitors wrestle a Hound for possession of a bed; the loser sleeps on the floor of the Athlete’s Village for a week,

Fencing: Foils, épées and sabers are dispensed with as athletes compete with a Hound to see who can dig themselves out of a fenced yard the fastest.

Long Jump: Athletes compete to see how far they can jump after a large, cold and wet Hound nose has been poked into a sensitive part of their anatomy.

High Jump: (see long jump)

Triathlon: Athlete must swim 1.5 km, bike 40 km and run 10 km whilst carrying a large Hound who doesn’t like exercising in hot weather.

Rowing: An element of variability is added to the event by having each boat controlled by the tail thumping of a Hound coxswain who is busy watching a loose rodent.

Well you get the idea.  Time precludes me from discussing all the contributions that Hounds could make to Olympic Sport. (And BTW, the way I comported myself in the show ring, should have made it a contender for an Olympic sport--I refer you to my post on Extreme Show Handling). And as far as other appealing events, I personally have always loved an event called “pursuit” but think it’s a shame that it just involves bicycles.  But humans have strange taste in sports—like riding a bike over a track that’s shaped like a Pringle’s potato chip. I’d rather eat the potato chip.

But anyway, I took a stroll down by the Hudson River the other evening and discovered that there is a whole new batch of sculptures for my humans to pose me in front of.  This one is called Existence Within.  I will have picture of the others in upcoming posts since I am well known as an art loving Hound and feel that these sculptures always look better with me in front of them.

Well I think I will leave it there for this week.  

Until next time,

Wimsey, an Olympic Sport


Friday, August 10, 2012

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #272

Entry #272
August 10, 2012

Hello Everyone, it’s me Wimsey coming to you from Manhattan’s Upper West Side where we are having a hot and muggy summer and my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth are running their ACs non-stop on my behalf.  Of course for most of last week it was on behalf of the beer from my brewery, Baying Hound Aleworks that Maria did not want to overheat before we could bring it over to the vet’s on Saturday.  Even things with my picture on them have to be kept at a comfortable temperature!
The vet staff were thrilled and delighted with the beer—and why wouldn’t they be with my handsome mug decorating the delicious brew—but I was cruelly repaid by having things shoved up my bum all in aid of an anal gland culture recheck.  I mean I appreciate the fact that people pay so much attention to a large, charismatic Hound such as myself, but my anal glands are far from my best feature.  Anyway I am pleased to report that even my anal glands are stubborn and non-cooperative—there was no fluid to culture.  The vet was pleased, the vet tech was pleased, Maria was pleased, Elizabeth was pleased, I was not pleased.

I also have to apologize for the paucity of photos this week—my humans have been extremely recalcitrant in the matter of documenting my every move—and what annoying moves they’ve been too.  And it’s been a busy week around here so I’ll attempt to acquit myself with unaccustomed brevity—I am naturally a creature of extensive and varied verbal abilities as those who read this blog and who live in my neighborhood know all too well.

Well this week I decided that even though it is still summer I wished to take lengthy toasty walks in the afternoon. My humans are a cynical bunch and decided that this had something to do with the fact that Elizabeth (who conducts my afternoon walks) is behind on a work project and short of time. So it’s been all  “Wimsey it’s hot out here—don’t you want to go back into the nice air conditioning?” To which my reply has invariably been to tow in the opposite direction and to conduct a Grand Tour of air-conditioned Upper West Side Pet Shops instead. In fact this week I have become so maniacal in pursuit of pet shop visits that the heinous gentle leader has made more than one appearance, causing one of Elizabeth’s neighbors to think that I was wearing a muzzle.  This is very puzzling as in summer, gentle leader or no, my mouth is wide open to permit maximum tongue lolling; so it’s hard to imagine how this little strap would stop me from taking a chunk out of someone’s butt if I were so inclined. (Fortunately we Hounds are rather more inclined towards taking a chunk out of someone’s sandwich rather than their butts).
But I really like to go to pet shops just to sniff the merchandise as I already possess a plethora of toys and not all of them come from pet shops either.  I’m kind of the equivalent of a canine dumpster diver as many of my treasures are objets trouvés as it were.  Several weeks ago, for instance, I really hit pay dirt—a tennis ball that was not only filthy but made a hideously loud and high pitched noise when chomped upon.  Now Maria, who has had extensive experience with the inadvisability of letting me bring home these found objects, strongly counseled Elizabeth not to let me add the ball to my burgeoning toy pile in her apartment.  Words that this week I know she wished she’d heeded.  There is nothing like trying to complete a challenging and overdue project whilst listening to me play a prolonged game of auto soccer with a loud, squeaky tennis ball to make one understand what it truly means to live with a Hound.  And better yet, whenever I batted the ball under furniture or into some other inaccessible spot I would go and interrupt Elizabeth’s work to demand that she retrieve it for me.  All of which led to a rather high decibel request on the part of Elizabeth for Maria to come get her Hound post haste, alleging that if she didn’t hurry I would shortly become an ex-Hound.
Is it any wonder that as my humans looked at the pictures being sent back from Mars they half expected to see a giant Martian Hound trot over, sniff the vehicle and lift his leg. We are everywhere you don’t want us to be doing everything you don’t want us to do. But we are very cute.

So as promised—a short post! But first, since I am short pictures this week here is a gratuitous picture of my Frenchie buddy Pluto.  It just arrived this afternoon from Maine where Pluto is vacationing with his humans.  I miss running into him on the street at 6:30 in the morning and letting everyone in the neighborhood know how pleased I am to see him. Well I think I will leave you with that thought, if not that sound.

Until next time,

Wimsey, (a Hound whose humans think a beer bottle is a voodoo doll)

Friday, August 3, 2012

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #271

Entry #271
August 3, 2012

Hello Everyone, Wimsey here, once again coming to you from Manhattan’s Upper West Side where I am back from taking my show on the road to Rockville, Maryland last weekend to visit my brewery, Baying Hound Aleworks.  But before I left, my vet visit in the week prior to the trip was a corker—my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth left the vet’s office with armloads of remedies for my skin yeast and with pockets as light as their arms were heavy.  De-yeasting a Hound with as much surface area as I possess doesn’t come cheap, but then things involving me seldom do. 

The de- yeasting process required two medicated, double wash baths 48 hours apart, which meant that Elizabeth barely had time to clean up her bathroom before I was there again for Round Two. And imagine my humans’ dismay when they realized that the directions specified that the second wash had to be left on for ten minutes. Now you have absolutely no idea how long ten minutes can be when you are trying to contain a giant, wet, annoyed Hound with aspirations to remedy his situation by executing a mad dash out the bathroom door.  The pleading, the petting, the pounds of turkey! There was a lot of post-bath caipirinha drinking, I can tell you.

The de-yeasting processes also required multiple powderings of my feet.  My humans determined that the best (and only) way to accomplish this was to sneak up on me whilst I was in the midst of a very involving nap and to powder and flee before I realized anything was amiss. I find the lack of fair play reprehensible. And they castigate me for sneaking up on them and flinging a little innocent drool in their faces.

Anyway, I also had one of my semi-annual ultrasounds to which my humans like to subject me to make sure that my innards are still where they should be (and to make sure that my brain has not actually migrated to my stomach where they suspect it resides).  The vet pronounced the ultrasound report “beautiful.” It’s nice to know that even my viscera are attractive.  And frankly I always love ultrasound exams—having my belly rubbed with warm gel is such a relaxing experience that I am trying to convince my humans to buy me my own machine.

But apart from helping the vet to add a new wing to his house, my humans spent most of the week preparing for the trip to brewery—trip planning around here being something akin to the Normandy invasion. It is enough to say that it involves a lengthy color-coded travel list. 

And as usual on Friday there was much drama over the obtaining of a suitable Wimseymobile owing to the lack of choices during weekends in the summer and the unfortunate tendency of makers of jumbo cars to install bucket seats instead of bench seating in the back seats. The vehicles also need to have an EZ pass for tolls (the stop and go traffic of lengthy toll lines being inimical to the enjoyment of my car nap) and be large enough to accommodate my soft crate (Elizabeth, who acts as my chauffeur tells the rental car people that she has a large painting to transport, being somewhat reluctant to reveal that their vehicle is about to be occupied by a large, sheddy, drooly and smelly beast. Although to be fair, my humans are expert car de-Hounders and they return cars cleaner than when they picked them up).  She also tells them that she needs bench seating to accommodate something that must lie flat, which is true—at least when I am not admiring myself in the rear view mirror or nose printing the windows.

Anyway, after much waiting and debate (and the rental clerk wanting to be rid of her) she was awarded a GMC Yukon, perhaps the largest Wimseymobile yet. (Although there was some debate about this because in the Jeep Commander Elizabeth’s arms were too short to reach the windscreen to position the GPS, whereas she could in the Yukon).  And as usual she drove the thing like a tank since she had no idea how wide or long it was and felt it was safer to err on the side of caution. Although I will say that in addition to being large enough for me and my chattels we all appreciated the fact that the car basically yells at you if you are about to back into something (it beeps in an alarming fashion).  Too bad they didn’t have something like that for the front. Personally I think that Elizabeth, who is small of stature, likes driving these big cars for the same reason that she likes being with me—it makes her feel powerful. Or look ridiculous.

Well after we were all loaded (and given the height of the vehicle we could have used a forklift for yours truly) and the GPS (which the ladies like to argue with) was programmed with our destination, the Sheraton in Silver Springs, Maryland, I gave the order to “make it so”, and off we went--into an hour’s worth of traffic to get through the Lincoln Tunnel.  But Maria used the time wisely to read the car’s manual so she actually knew on what side of the car the gas tank was located and could tell Elizabeth the meaning of all the icons that appeared when she inadvertently pushed various buttons. A speedy five hours later we arrived in style-- or as much style as you can muster whilst bumping the front of your car into the wall of the parking garage.

Now arriving at a hotel with an oversized, conspicuous dog who you are hoping that somehow no one will notice (most pet friendly hotels having weight limits far below my ample avoir du poids) requires a bit of strategy.  I was taken out of sight for a walk whilst Elizabeth checked into The Wimsey Suite (2 connecting rooms draped in my sheets and towels) and with the help of the bellman unpacked the car.  Then armed with a spit rag she found us and I was marched between my humans in a straight line from the lobby door to the elevator in the most casual manner possible.  Only one person screamed and ran.

Now once ensconced in my suite it was time to receive visitors—our friend Ilonka (whose husband Paul founded my brewery) arrived to engage in a little pre-prandial Wimsey worship.  And I was so excited to see her, that contrary to the restraint I usually exercise in the matter of indoor baying, I let fly with my most joyful efforts much to the consternation of my humans—loud baying not being helpful in the inconspicuous dog department.  In the end they had to feed me turkey to get me to shut up.  It’s not for nothing that turkey is known around here as the magic meat.

And once again I determined that the best place for me to hang out was in Elizabeth’s room because I am not supposed to hang out in Elizabeth’s room. The whole purpose of the suite is to allow her to sleep without my nocturnal snoring, ear flapping and bed checks.  Nevertheless when we travel I always sniff everything thoroughly then head into her room, find a comfy spot and turn into 125 lbs. of dead Wimsey weight. But the ladies were so tired and I looked so comfortable that the connecting door stayed open and I spent the night with Elizabeth—a win-win situation since Elizabeth doesn’t sleep well when I am around and Maria doesn’t sleep well when I’m not.

Well after a leisurely Saturday morning that included being hand fed sausage from the breakfast buffet and taking a nap with Elizabeth on the spare bed in her room (she was apparently tired) we picked up Ilonka and headed out to the brewery which was celebrating its second year of operation.  Part of the proceeds of the event went to benefit the Montgomery County Humane Society and I’m afraid I terrorized the two attendant pit bulls with my baying. But where else is one supposed to bay if not at the Baying Hound Aleworks. (Elizabeth was thrilled that there were pit bulls there. She loves pit bulls. She says they listen to her). Anyway, because it was so hot there were a lot of water bottles in evidence which meant that there were quite a number to steal or cadge and to precycle. I did periodically go into the brewery itself where I conveniently monopolized the fan much to the delight of all the people who had to step over me.

The event was very much a success—obviously people like drinking beer with my picture on the label—although ironically neither of my humans got to partake-- managing a giant Hound and driving a giant car not being especially conducive to having a relaxing brew. But Maria did bring some beer back for work colleagues and tomorrow we are bringing some over to the vet’s.  Probably they could use something stronger after having to deal with me so often, but until I acquire and rename the following brands the beer will have to do:

Wimsey’s Liquor Empire  
Absolut (Absolut Obnoxious)
Johnnie Walker (Wimsey Dragger)
Chivas Regal (Shove Us Regal)
Grey Goose (Cold, Wet Hound Nose Goose)
Wild Turkey (Wild Wimsey)
Beefeater (Beefstealer)
Bushmills (Bushpoops)
Smirnoff (Smear On)
Jose Cuervo (Wimsey No Go)
Myers (Mine)
Mount Gay (Mount Bay)
Stolichnaya (Stole It From Ya)

Well you get the idea.

Anyway, one of the highlights of the event was the dunk tank. There was some talk of trying to get me to press the red button to dunk Paul but as satisfying as it would have been to give a human a bath I like Paul too much.  Instead Elizabeth did it because it was her chance to give someone a bath without taking one herself.
And of course I got to take extensive walks around Silver Spring and in spite of never having been there before I always had a specific route in mind which was somehow never the one that my humans intended.  Even they were impressed by my ability to decisively drag them as if I actually knew exactly where I was going. But. I did know exactly where I was going. Whichever way they weren’t.  And we found a farmers market that I enjoyed visiting very much although my humans cruelly prevented me from inspecting the merchandise to my complete satisfaction.
But the highlight of the trip was a lovely walk in Sligo Creek Park with Paul, Ilonka and their quarter Hounder, Bernie.  Prior to this, on my morning walk I had put my foot down the wrong way, causing my humans to alert Paul and Ilonka to the fact that I was lame and not up to much walking. Once at the park, however, I proceeded to charge out of the car and drag Elizabeth along the trail at speed.  Then it was all “I thought you said he was lame!”  There is nothing like making your humans look like over reacting buffoons.

I especially liked Sligo Creek itself although Elizabeth and I had a disagreement as to the route we should take—I thought we should walk through the actual creek but she didn’t want to owing to something petty like having to drive 5 hours in wet jeans and shoes.  My humans should be used to me getting them soaked.

But before I leave you to go play with my latest favorite obnoxious toy—a squeaky tennis ball that I found in the park—a big shout out to my young Frenchie friend Pluto and his humans Kim and Andre for passing their therapy dog test.  This means that Pluto can go places and have people pet him and feed him snacks.  I guess I am a therapy dog too, except for the whole listening to humans part of it. And of course after spending time with me people do need therapy so that should count for something.

Any ahrooo, until next time,

Wimsey, the toast of Rockville