Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #117

Entry #117
May 1, 2009

Hello Everyone. It’s me, Wimsey, wishing you a Happy May Day from the festive confines of my apartment(s) on New York City’s Upper West Side. My human Maria was feeling under the weather this week so I have been spending a few days at my other apartment—that of her friend Elizabeth, where I am treated like the Great Hound King that I am. Of course coping with me when one is perfectly on top of the weather is tough enough so when my human is feeling the least bit peaky I am packed off to my alternative Palais de Hound whose view over Riverside Park allows me to keep tabs on all the canine comings and goings. And every morning when I am in residence (I think perhaps they should fly a standard over Elizabeth’s building just like they do for the Queen of England) we conduct a proper royal Levee:

The Levee of Wimsey I, The Hound King of Manhattan

4 am: The Pre-Levee: His Majesty conducts vigorous and acoustically robust ear flapping activities. This is to alert the soundly sleeping Court (Elizabeth) that dawn is nigh and that they shouldn’t get too comfortable before the actual levee begins. Lest the sentiment go unnoticed, His Majesty repairs to his blue enameled china Chopard water dish and consumes its contents in an equally acoustically robust manner.

7:30am: The Ceremonial Snuffling of the Face: His Majesty gently awakens the Court in time honored Hound fashion by snuffling her face with his enormous cold and wet nose, while soft drooly wrinkles envelop the face and make a delightful contrast to His Majesty’s stiff facial bristles.

7:32 am: The Ascending of the Bed: Having successfully completed the Ceremonial Snuffling and been rewarded by the appropriate squeals of delight, His Majesty proceeds to step regally onto the bed itself whereupon he sits upon the Court and graciously allows himself to be given his Morning Scratching.

7:32 am (continued): The Morning Scratching: His Majesty is given a thorough scratching whilst sitting facing the park so that the royal nares can suck in the incoming Riverside Park breeze.

7:37 am: The Ejection of the Court and Assumption of The Divine Right of Bed: The Morning Scratching having been completed to the satisfaction of His Majesty, he gently encourages the Court to leave the Royal Bed and prepare for the Royal Morning Park Walk. He subsequently assumes his rightful place among the bed’s fluffy blankets and pillows.

8:00 am: The Leashing (attempt 1): In the interval required for the court to assume raiment appropriate for the Royal Morning Park Walk (LL Bean, Couturier to the Court of Wimsey I) his Majesty falls into a deep and restful sleep amongst the fluffy blankets and pillows of the royal bed and is no longer in the mood for the Royal Morning Park Walk. The Court uses the inducement of a biscuit placed under the royal nose, but to no avail.

8:10 am The Leashing (attempt 2): His Majesty is now full cognizant of the turn things are taking and greets the second approach of the collars and leashes with a roll over on the royal back and a demand for a Royal Belly Rub. The Court, ever hopeful that compliance will ultimately result in preparing His Majesty for The Leashing necessary to the Royal Morning Park Walk, rubs his Majesty’s Belly in the manner most gratifying to His Majesty.

8:20 am The Leashing (attempt 3): The Court, having proffered biscuits and belly rubs is now forced to take stronger measures for the good of His Majesty’s eliminatory systems, which would not be served by a Royal Lie In. The Great Head is laboriously lifted and the Royal Collar fastened about the Royal Neck. The Royal Leash is attached and gentle pressure is applied to encourage His Majesty to descend from the Royal Bed.

825 am: The Royal Elevator Ride: At last the King and Court have exited the Royal Apartments and await the service of the Royal Elevator. Receiving the customary salutation of “Oh no, he’s back!” from the Master of the King’s Elevator the King and his tail are firmly tucked into the Royal Elevator and the King and Court make their way along the Ceremonial Allée (the service entrance) to the street and thence to the Royal Park.

8:30 am The Royal Morning Park Walk: During the King’s two hour Morning Park Walk His Majesty is greeted by His subjects, photographed by various paparazzi and assiduously inspects the condition of his demesne’s abundant plantings and waters them accordingly. The Royal Poop is achieved and its condition carefully inspected and duly noted for later discussion among the courtiers (when both the King’s courtiers are present the size and condition of the Royal Poop is discussed and debated at great length in the context of other Royal Poops produced that day and on previous days and the size and condition of future poops to be achieved are speculated upon).

10:30 am The Royal Breakfast: His Majesty supervises the preparation of his morning meal with great attention. His Majesty frequently calls into question the need for his scrambled eggs to be cooled in the refrigerator but the Court fears the consequence of a burned royal tongue and its attendant recourse to the costly services of the Royal Physician. The King however quite enjoys the services of the Royal Physician and is always in favor of a visit, except when it results in a finger up his bum or liquid down his ears.

10:45 am: The End of the Levee: The King repairs to the piece of furniture of his choice for a much needed nap. The burdens of kingship weigh heavily upon The King’s small number of neurons. And he needs his beauty sleep to appear before his public appropriately wrinkled and bleary eyed.

Well as you can imagine staying with Elizabeth is quite enjoyable-- at least for me. Yesterday she took me to lunch at the Loeb Boathouse Café and we shared a delicious tuna sandwich much to the delight of the tourists. The really amazing thing was that I actually shared like a gentleman and didn’t snatch the sandwich out of her hands in the manner of many of my Houndly brethren. And while I am generally un-Hound like in my attitude towards food—I tend to be somewhat finicky and like to actually engage in mastication—I did find a half of a sandwich lying next to the ball fields and the sight of it awoke my inner Hound—a snatch and a gulp and it was history. My humans were both terribly impressed by the sheer speed and Houndiness of the maneuver and I was all too happy to bolster my Hound credentials in this manner.

But Elizabeth did decide to do one ridiculous thing during my stay—she bathed me by herself. Wimsey Bath Night was apparently long overdue and I apparently no longer smelled like a Hound; I just stank.

Bob Costas: OK, here we are with one of the most dangerous sports known to man—Solo Wimsey Bathing.
Dick Engberg: And we’re off to a rousing start—Wimsey has apparently smelled the shampoo as it was being prepared and is running around looking very uncooperative indeed.

Bob Costas: That’s right Dick and without a team member to bribe him with turkey and subdue him we’re in for a wild ride.

Dick: Well I see Elizabeth’s lassoed him with a chain and leash and is dragging him into the bathroom.

Bob: Getting him into the bathroom is one thing. Getting him into the tub is another.

Dick: That’s right. But she seems to have forced him into the tub and is employing a body block.

Bob: Oh no. She’s turned on the water and he’s out of the tub!

Dick: Now she’s forced him back in. But can she wet him down?

Bob: She’s got one hand on his leash, one hand on the shower attachment and is using quick body moves to block his egress. It’s kind of like watching a wide receiver trying to get to the goal post while being checked by a defensive linebacker.

Dick: Have you noticed that in the process of wetting Wimsey down Elizabeth has wet herself down as well.

Bob: A sacrifice play Dick. There was no other way.

Dick: Oh no! Wimsey’s made a break for it! He’s out! And he’s flooding the bathroom floor! And he’s just shaken wet hair on the walls and ceiling. Oh my!

Bob: Well, she’s taken hold again and has forced him back in. But she turned on the water and he’s out again!

Dick: How long can this go on! Two superb athletes in a classic battle of wills. Normally my money would be on the Hound, but I understand the stench has gotten Elizabeth pretty fired up. Especially as Wimsey’s made her bed smell like a swamp.

Bob: OK, she’s shut off the water and is pouring on the soap. She seems to have overlooked the difficulty that hanging onto a soapy leash would entail!

Dick: Your right! The leash has slipped right though her fingers and he’s out again! Now the bathroom is flooded with slippery soapy water and there’s another colossal shake! What an event this is turning out to be. An uncooperative 126lb Hound is one thing but a soapy uncooperative 126lb Hound is the pinnacle of sport. To see these two exhausted wet and soapy competitors going at it head to head brings tears to my eyes.

Bob: I think that’s just the soap Wimsey flung in them. But Elizabeth is facing a problem here Dick. Having gotten Wimsey wet and soaped up she seems unable to get him back into the tub. He’s just too slick for her.

Dick: She’s gotten into the tub herself and is trying to haul him in after her. But he’s not budging so I see she is using the push the tush maneuver.

Bob: He’s in! But will he stay in? And can Elizabeth keep from slipping and incurring yet another Hound related injury? But first, a word from our sponsor, The Hospital For Special Surgery.


Well it was all pretty humiliating and to add to the indignity Elizabeth tied my leash to the front door while she cooked my dinner to prevent me from running around and soaking the furniture. My view was that I was wet. I was cheesed off. And I definitely was going to climb up on something. In the end I had to settle for climbing up on Elizabeth. But she was already wet. The only good thing is that the experience is unlikely to be repeated.

Anyway, as I mentioned last week we had three days of hot summer weather so this Sunday we took a very leisurely Central Park walk where mostly I flopped down and looked pathetically hot in spite of the fact that water was continually being brought to me to drink and being dumped on me which was really pretty annoying (although the ladies maintain that it is to help cool me down. Personally I think they just like annoying me for a change). But there was a method to my madness—all the flopping and refusing to move, ostensibly because of the heat, meant that a walk that should have taken 1.5 hours took 3 hours instead. My humans always maintain that I am not all that bright, but really I am purposefully unintelligent. Also, since there wasn’t a lot of shade guess who sat in the shady spots and guess who sat in the sun?

Now my ladies are both very fair and fry like shrimp so both were slathered in sun screen. Elizabeth also has sensitive skin so is always on the look out for special sun block—last year’s version had zinc oxide and made her look like she was auditioning for a kabuki play. This year she has new stuff that is fine as long as she doesn’t perspire—then the white cream magically reappears and streaks down her face. Such an attractive look. I’m sure the men will be flocking this summer. But the ladies felt strangely bereft in the weather without any special seasonal hounding clothes or gear to carry so they are thinking about purchasing some hi tech mesh shirts that will help to keep them cool during our adventures and I also might come in for a new lighter weight cooling vest this summer. We should be quite a tableau.

Well this is a long post so I think we will skip our visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art. In addition to all the other goings on this week I met a raccoon (wasn’t allowed to say hi) and met my very first Bracco Italiano—we didn’t have the camera but check out this picture—they kind of look like me! New York is a cosmopolitan city even for canines! And this weekend people will be celebrating Cinco de Mayo and all things Mexican (except the flu).

Until next time,

HRH Wimsey

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #116

Entry # 116
April 24, 2009

Hello Everyone. Wimsey here, coming to you from Manhattan’s Upper West Side where we are having winter, spring and summer all on sequential days. It’s wreaking havoc with my delicate metabolism which gets deranged by these sudden and premature shifts to warm weather, especially when there are not yet shady trees to loll about under when I want to cool off. Lounging under daffodils does not somehow produce the same effect. But there were still plenty of flowering trees about this week and my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth carried on with photographing me in front of them so I am afraid there is yet another flowering tree montage featuring yours truly.

And of course whether or not I am standing in front of flowering trees I am constantly being photographed by tourists from pretty much everywhere in the world, which makes me wonder what everyone does with all these holiday snaps of me? Does my photo end up in people’s video scrap books of their New York’s vacation hot spots along with the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building? Should I be listed in the guidebooks as a “must see” (and must hear) feature of Central Park? Or are people using my photographs as evidence that people in New York City are incorrigibly eccentric—keeping outsized Hounds in undersized apartments. It is really a great mystery. But as you may expect, given how unusual an urban sight I am, many people also want to know what kind of dog I am and given all the noise and hub bub about—not to mention the various language barriers—sometimes the word bloodhound gets mangled quite a bit. One fellow this Sunday thought that Maria said I was a blackhound, which made me think that we could invent all kinds of new types of Hounds:

The Harvest Hound: A Hound with powerful spade like paws that was specifically developed by agrarian societies to be unleashed to assist with the harvest. Machines have made his function obsolete and today’s Harvest Hound mostly turns his considerable skill to harvesting ornamental shrubs, flower beds and couch stuffing.

The Tow Hound: This powerful Hound was developed to haul people around in carts. Today’s Tow Hound still does the same thing except without the carts.

The Pirate Hound: As may be expected, this was an extraordinarily talented Hound whose purpose was to aid and abet larceny at sea. Pirate Hounds fell out of favor because they were so effective in their mission to liberate items that did not belong to them that even the pirates faced difficulty in retrieving their illicit booty. The Pirate Hound is believed to be the foundation stock of most of today’s modern Hounds.

The Bed Hound: This Hound was originally developed to supplement the function of a warming pan to create a warm and toasty bed for people to get into. Eventually the Hound’s utility was expanded to include keeping the bed warm and toasty even when people were actually sleeping in it. Central heating was thought to mark the decline of this Hound although some people say that it was due to the large number of owners who ended up sleeping on the stone cold floor while the Hound ended up sleeping in the warm and toasty bed. The desire to shove people completely out of bed has been largely bred out of this hot blooded Hound and has been replaced by the far more moderate tendency to shove people merely to the bed’s edge.

The Scrap Hound: This was a brilliantly designed Hound whose function was green long before it was trendy. Farmers fed the Scrap Hound bits and pieces of stuff no one else wanted to eat where it was converted via the Hound’s extensive digestive system into enormous mounds of strongly scented poop that both helped grow more food and kept foraging people and animals at bay. The system broke down however when farmer’s wives and daughters began expanding the culinary repertoire of the adorable Scrap Hound causing it to gradually evolve into today’s Gourmet Dining Hound. Today the Gourmet Dining Hound is as likely to be consuming steak au poivre, poached salmon with dill sauce or even your dinner as chicken feet, potato peels and pig offal and is also much more likely to be found fertilizing the living room carpet as the vegetable garden.

In any case I think a Black Hound is a misnomer—anyone who is around us Hounds for very long soon realizes that green is the required color. But anyway, I must say I have had better weeks. Not only were there those endlessly flowering trees to be forced to visits but then there was this Fren>ch bulldog puppy who was no respecter of elders. This all was followed by some cold and rainy weather and Elizabeth developed a cold which meant that Maria was constantly offering my services as a nurse. Maria has this almost mystical belief in my power to promote good health and seems convinced that after a few days with me Elizabeth would be cured.

Nurse Wimsey: Here let me to fetch you some tissues.
Elizabeth: The box is empty!

Nurse Wimsey: I can’t imagine what happened to them. I’ll go unravel some toilet paper for you instead.

Elizabeth: Where’s my bottle of water?

Nurse Wimsey: The same place as your bottle of juice. Why don’t you scramble us some eggs?

Elizabeth: You ate my eggs!

Nurse Wimsey: It’s bad to overtax one’s digestive system when one has a cold . Starve a fever, feed a Hound.

Elizabeth: You’re crushing me!

Nurse Wimsey: It is important to keep warm when one is sick.

Elizabeth: Then why do all my wool socks have holes in them?

Nurse Wimsey: Well ventilated toes are essential to the healing process. We could take a warm bath—would that make you feel better?

Elizabeth: Only if I could take it alone.

Nurse Wimsey: The bathroom is the most dangerous room in the house. You know I never permit my charges to go there unattended. Besides if I don’t smear drool on you after you bathe your skin might dry out.

Elizabeth: Actually, I think I am feeling much better.

So perhaps Maria is right about my curative abilities. In any case we are apparently in for some hot weather and Elizabeth has offered to host me for a few days since she is already planning on running the AC at max, just the way I like it. I also like to wake her up early in the morning by snuffling her face and stop her from getting too much sleep at night by loud head shaking, water drinking and bed re-arranging so I am sure Elizabeth is looking forward immensely to a visit from me. Also of course I like to rest my chin on the window sill and look longingly out at Riverside Park when she is trying to work which tends to result in her ceasing to try to work and in her taking me to the park. And when it is eventually time to come in I climb up on a bench and refuse to move. And trying to get me to move results in some very disapproving stares from animal loving neighbors. She loves having me.

But with the warm weather there are also increasing opportunities for even more people to admire me. This evening we had a lovely walk where we ran into a lucky escape admirer. Lucky escape admirers are the folks who come running over to tell us how much they love bloodhounds and how they almost got one. “And what kind of dog did you actually get” asked Maria? “A black lab” answered the lucky escapee. The ladies nodded sagely. “A wise choice.” And then there was the ‘He’s Not a Dog, He’s a Lifestyle!” speech in the midst of which I got bored and executed one of my sudden shoulder wrenching charging over to see another dog maneuvers which really impressed the escapee. “Are you all right?’ he asked Elizabeth. And it was all, “Oh yes, Wimsey does this all the time.” So really it should be He’s Not a Dog, He’s a Lifestyle. A Dangerous Lifestyle!” And as usual humans’ pain is my gain, which is why the escapee is lucky.

Anyway, this week we take a quick look at another Cezanne that is featured in The Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art collection. The Card Players (Paul Cezanne 1890, Musee du Louvre, Paris). Cezanne painted several versions of this picture so he must have liked the subject—perhaps it reminded him of the men of his native Aix-en- Provence. In any case, even though the painting was done in the 1890s these men look very familiar to me—they have that same intense look of concentration that my humans have when they look at the computer. So it is only fitting that the men in the painting suffer the same consequences as do more contemporary humans—the unwelcome insertion of a magnificently disruptive Hound. Do not let his casual, heavy lidded appearance fool you—he is about to snatch a hand, and his human’s attention, for himself. Wimsey and the Card Players.

OK, it is time to rest up for the impending heat wave. There is talk of another foray north to the Conservatory Garden this Sunday in the hopes that the flowers are actually out this time and Elizabeth is busy checking out the fines in case I decide to take us for an unlawful swim into the Harlem Meer.

Until next time,

Wimsey, a lucky escape

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #115

Entry #115
April 17, 2009

Hello everyone (or should I say Buongiorno), it’s me Wimsey coming to you from the tourist teeming streets of Manhattan’s Upper West Side where I have been on international meet and greet duty all week. Most notably this week my human Maria and I were accosted by a rather large group of Italian tourists who formed a very considerate horseshoe around me while loud cries of “bellissimo” and “perfetto” rang out in the tangy spring air. There was rather a lot more said in that language but as neither Maria nor I speak Italian and her friend Elizabeth-- our resident pseudo-linguist—was not with us—we were only able to focus on the two words we understood. Of course my humans would totally agree with the bellissimo part but had they command of Italian they may have taken issue with the perfetto bit. But there is no denying that I am a perfect Hound even if my credentials as a dog leave something (a lot) to be desired. Anyway, there was much meeting and greeting as I felt the need to individually nose wand each of these foreigners—one never knows when a stray mortadella may have been smuggled into the country requiring immediate confiscation—much to their evident delight.

And speaking of delight, Maria, Elizabeth and I all took a delightful four hour stroll in Central Park on Easter Sunday where flowering tree season has begun. Every year it is somehow imperative that I be photographed in front of as many of these trees as possible which is so annoying that I feel compelled to pee on them afterwards. And every year I am convinced that I am going to meet the Easter Bunny with exciting results. Now my humans have explained that the Easter Bunny does not really exist but I feel the need to go on an extensive bunny hunt nonetheless. Central Park has many juicy critters but apparently no rabbits which I always think is shame as I believe that a swift and stealthily agile Hound such as myself would most certainly be able to catch them.

But I digress. I was speaking about the Italian tourists and their astute observation about my perfection. I am considered such a perfect Hound in fact that there has actually been talk about cloning me. I think this is an excellent idea and I am sure I would greatly enjoy meeting these clones. But I am not sure anyone else would.

The Attack of the Wimsey Clones

Breaking News! We interrupt your regularly scheduled inane TV show to bring you this:

Wolf Blitzer: This is Wolf Blitzer reporting to you from New York City, which we understand has been overrun by gangs of large, smelly Hounds.
Anderson Cooper: That’s right Wolf. Apparently they are all clones—an experiment that has gone horribly wrong!

Wolf Blitzer: I am here with one victim. Can you tell us what happened Ma’am?

Victim: Yes, I was sitting at an outdoor café having brunch—a bagel and lox and scrambled eggs—when suddenly out of nowhere my bagel was snatched by a huge, albeit very cute, Hound whilst another one that looked exactly like it used his gigantic and very pink tongue to scoop up my scrambled eggs!

Wolf Blitzer: For those viewers not familiar with it, lox is smoked salmon, correct?
Victim: That’s right Wolf.

Wolf Blitzer: We have reports that these clones are particularly fond of salmon. Fish shops have shut down and patrons of outdoor cafes all over the city have been telling shocking tales like the one we just heard. Restaurants have barricaded their doors against these voracious marauders.

Anderson Cooper: And that’s not all. Apparently the Hounds have invaded Bloomingdales and are playing tug of war with the summer fashions! Some of them have even eaten the straw hats and swim wear and a group of these odoriferous buccaneers are reported to be headed for the lingerie department.

Wolf: That’s going to be ugly. Of course since none of the underwear has actually been worn they may give it a miss and just chew up the mannequins. But at least they’re shopping—no one else in the city is.

Anderson: Mayor Bloomberg has called an emergency meeting in what’s left of Gracie Mansion and The Times reports that the Hounds are shredding today’s edition.

Wolf: The City is in chaos Anderson! This is what working for CNN is all about! Mailmen are being jumped on at every corner and the contents of their bags eaten and the sanitation department can’t keep up with the large brown mounds that are appearing citywide—probably as a result of the restaurant invasions and the mass looting of butcher shops. Liver is apparently very lubricating. And hotels all over the city are reporting that their linens are missing. Not to mention that there is a viscous white goo everywhere! New York City hasn’t seen this much slime since they filmed Ghostbusters!

Anderson: Apparently the Mayor brought in Cesar Millan to help mediate but he took one look and had to be rushed to the hospital. He was heard to mutter something about a lack of rules boundaries and limitations.

Anderson: Very understandable Wolf. Hounds are well known for having no comprehension at all of these things.

Wolf: But what do the Hounds want? Have they issued any demands or ransom notes? Why are they doing these things Anderson?

Anderson: Well, the experts have concluded that they are just having fun. Apparently it’s a Hound thing.

Of course the cloning of me would bring up many interesting philosophical questions, such as if I were to have an evil clone would he be mild mannered and obedient? And it might solve the nature vs. nurture debate that is a regular feature of our walks: is my bad behavior the result of my genes or my humans? It’s certainly not my fault. I am perfetto. And if I were cloned we could open the law firm of Hound Hound Hound and Hound.

Receptionist: Mr. Hound, Mr. Beagle is here to see you.

Mr. Hound: He’s not my client, he’s Hound’s client! Why can’t you keep any of us straight! Anyway, I’m off to my club for a belly rub.

Receptionist: I’m sorry Mr. Hound. I do try.

Mr. Hound: Anyway, we’re nothing alike. Hound has longer whiskers and Hound’s tail is a bit more pointy and Hound has very short nails owing to all the towing he does on weekends and I am certainly more intelligent.

Receptionist: But I thought none of you were intelligent?

Hound: It’s all relative. Now let Hound know that his client is here. And by the way, what happened to my morning paper?

Receptionist: I’m afraid Mr. Hound stole it and shredded it Mr. Hound.

Mr. Hound: That abominable Hound! Just wait until he tries to find his favorite rawhide.

Receptionist Mr. Hound there is a Mr. Beagle to see you.

Mr. Hound: Ask him what he wants. I’m napping. You know if I don’t get my beauty sleep I start to look smooth.

Receptionist: But you just had a nap.

Mr. Hound: But that was on the couch. A nap on the rug is completely different.

Receptionist: Mr. Hound, Mr. Beagle says you represented his neighbor, Mr. Labrador against a charge of attempted murder of a chicken.

Mr. Hound: Indeed I did. He was found not guilty by reason of being a bird dog. Are any of the other Hounds available?

Receptionist: I’m afraid not. Mr. Hound is off to his club for a belly rub, Mr. Hound is engaged in digging up a new flower bed he found and Mr. Hound is hiding under the bed—we don’t exactly know why but I am sure it has something to do with the Chinese food that was being delivered next door.

Mr. Hound: Very well. Send Mr. Beagle in.

Mr. Beagle: Thank you for seeing me. I’m really in the dog house. I liberated an entire leg of lamb from a countertop. Apparently it was Easter dinner. I did however, leave the mint jelly; I hope that counts in my favor.

Mr. Hound: I don’t like mint jelly either. But let me get this straight. A succulent leg of lamb—medium rare I hope-- was left unattended on a countertop in the presence of a beagle?

Mr. Beagle: Yes.

Mr. Hound: And it is you who are being accused of committing a crime?

Mr. Beagle: Yes.

Mr. Hound: I think the judge will find your humans guilty by reason of insanity. Now I really must proceed with my nap, the sun only hits that spot on the rug for a few hours.

Better yet, can you imagine a show ring full of my clones—all of us pacing instead of trotting and competing to be the first to get our noses up each other’s backsides during our once around. And we could engage in synchronized stack dancing and polyphonic baying. It would be the first show ring in history where no one would win. And my humans would always be trying to figure out which one was me and which one was a clone. (Except of course the renegade one who would always come when called). And perhaps when they do the cloning they could make some improvements-- like making me even larger, louder and smellier! This is an idea that I am hoping my humans explore further.

In the meantime my share of Maria’s baking this week included a cinnamon bun that was so deliciously exciting that as I sat on the couch eating it I demonstrated my enthusiasm in the way that only a well endowed male Hound such as myself can. And it was all “Wow! That must be some cinnamon bun!’ and “Maybe we could sell the recipe to Pfizer!” But my view has always been, if you have it flaunt it. And I do (which keeps Maria pretty busy with PhotoShop’s eraser tool). And also on matters culinary I came in for my own piece of Citarella poached salmon this week as the piece Elizabeth bought for herself was too small to share. And she was especially appreciative of the clerk’s booming announcement to the rest of the shoppers “What! You’re going to feed this to the dog!” “But he’s a Hound” she whined amid the stares and promptly slunk out of the store after having quickly purchased my gourmet snack.

Anyway, it is time for our weekly visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art where we take a look at an early painting by Paul Cézanne: Portrait of Louis-August Cézanne, Father of the Artist Reading L’Événement. (Paul Cézanne, 1866, National Gallery of Art, Washington D.C.). Now Paul Cézanne did not get along very well with his father. His father was a successful banker who expected his son to also be a successful banker, (Cézanne père would have approved of cloning) and as one can imagine he was not exceptionally thrilled to have a son who chose to be an artist instead. Ironically, no one knows or cares anything about the elder Cézanne but his son’s work is considered to have laid the foundation for much modern art. So much for listening to one’s parents. But like all good sons, Paul Cézanne was not above getting a little revenge on his father. In this painting the elder Cézanne looks like he is going to fall of his throne-like chair and one of Cézanne’s paintings (of which his father doubtless would not have approved) hangs on the wall behind him. And the elder Cezanne is not reading one of his boring business journals but a paper in which Cézanne’s BFF Emile Zola gave good reviews to the impressionist paintings of Cézanne’s friends. But still I think Cézanne could have done more to make his father uncomfortable. See how much more annoying it would be if there were a magnificent newspaper loving Hound also trying to read (and perhaps ultimately shred) the newspaper! Undoubtedly the Hound has begun drooling on the paper and he is a moment away from climbing onto M. Cézanne’s lap, thus banishing all hope of further perusal of the paper. I do this to Elizabeth all the time so the concept fits perfectly with the realistic style of this Cézanne’s painting. And what better revenge could there be on an uptight father than the unleashing an outsized smelly Hound into his quiet and orderly world? Portrait of Wimsey Reading L’Événement.

Well that’s all for this week. Time for some ornamental tree peeing. Until next time.

Ciao,

Wimsey, il houndo molto bellissimo e perfetto