Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #166

Entry #166
April 23, 2010


Hello Everyone, it's me Wimsey coming to you from Manhattan's Upper West Side where technological and scheduling disasters are in play. Owing to a catastrophic computer failure this week there will be some pictures from last Sunday's walk with my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth but not much of a blog post. It's been a pretty routine week here anyway--just the usual beautiful spring weather and lots of adulation from residents and visitors alike. Also much towing of Elizabeth to the Boat Basin Cafe in hopes that she will buy a beer
so I can play with the plastic cup when she is finished. For reasons that escape me, Elizabeth is reluctant to spend her afternoons drinking beer in order to indulge me. She can be cruel that way (although I was exceptionally persuasive on one warm and technologically disasterous day--it is inded fortunate that I can't play with used glasses of whiskey). Also we met a fellow there named Brian who has a bloodhound in North Carolina and there was much comparing of notes and concluding that whether rural or urban, bloodhounds are obstinate and difficult (and stinky) but strangely compelling in our bad behavior.

And speaking of bad behavior, Elizabeth is going to Geneva tomorrow and will miss most of my doings during the week, hence next week there will be no blog post! It is tragic that there will be no one to record my life for five days. Not only that but there is also this volcano thing happening. If she gets stuck in Switzerland I will be one really cheesed off Hound. And on the subject of cheese, Maria opined that I might forgive her absence if she brought me back some cheese. Cheese is a start.

And on the subject of happier upcoming events,our good friend Ilonka and her husband (who has never met me) are coming up next weekend so there will at least be some recompense for being abandoned by part of my entourage.

So until next time,

Wimsey, the abandoned and unloved

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound #118

May 8, 2009
Entry #118

Hello everyone, it’s me, Wet and Wild Wimsey coming to you from the rain drenched Upper West Side of Manhattan. Well last week it wasn’t bad enough that I got water poured on me in the bath tub, this week I am getting water poured on me outside as well. All of which means my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth, in a foolish attempt at self preservation, have been walking me in a gentle leader. I like to drag my humans through the mud—literally-- which is fun for me but potentially injurious to them. Hence the heinous Gentle Leader.

Anyway, you will note that in this week’s photos I am not my usual smiling self but wet and cheesed off at this aquatic turn of climactic events. Personally I blame my humans for the weather and cast accusing glances at them throughout these wet walks. But under the heading of every rain cloud has a silver lining, I did have the park pretty much to myself on Sunday, my humans being the only people foolish enough to be out and about taking a stroll. Of course other New Yorkers are not living with a large, demanding Hound and are therefore not seeking to avoid living with a large, demanding Hound with an uncontrolled case of cabin fever-- large demanding Hounds with uncontrolled cases of cabin fever have an unfortunate tendency to eat the cabin. It’s much better for them to get wet and muddy and have a large demanding Hound with an uncontrolled case of snoring in the bed fever.

Anyway on the subject of the empty park I did get to investigate this statue of Hans Christian Anderson without the throngs of excited young ‘uns who are normally frisking about. Now Hans Christian Anderson wrote a lot of famous fairy tales and I am a big fan of fairy tales but many of them could be improved:

Cinderella: A beautiful young girl is prevented from going to a ball by her wicked step mother and ugly step sisters. She goes to the ball anyway because her Fairy God Hound assures her that anything is possible if one is determined, stubborn and persistent enough. While she is at the ball the prince falls in love with her but she flees on the stroke of midnight. The Prince’s Hound, always on the lookout for the finer things in life discovers that Cinderella has dropped a shoe and settles down for a good chew (the whole glass slipper thing is a myth—what woman would want the world to see what her toes look like crammed into her ball room stilettos). The Prince, recognizing the shoe, bribes his Hound to drop it with a large piece of liver cooked just the way the Hound likes it. He waves the smelly slipper in front of the Hound (Cinderella had after all been dancing in it for quite a number of hours) and tells the Hound to find its owner. The heroic Hound springs into action and finds Cinderella. With his superior sense of smell the Hound recognizes her immediately even though the prince, who can only rely on his eyes, is somewhat doubtful that this dowdy creature wearing no makeup and no designer clothing and jewelry is really the woman of his dreams. He wonders what his mother will think. Nevertheless, the wise Hound assures him that all women look like this without professional assistance and the prince whisks Cinderella off to the royal hair and makeup salon. The Hound finally gets to chew up the shoes and Cinderella is so grateful for the Hound’s assistance that he is always by her side and they live happily ever after.

The Emperor’s New Clothes: A metrosexual emperor who is very fond of clothes hires two men who promise to make him the most beautiful suit of clothes ever. They do, but unfortunately the Emperor’s Hound is also very fond of clothes and so the emperor has to go out naked.

Little Red Riding Hood: Little Red Riding Hood, a visually challenged child, is taking food to her sick grandmother and is naïve enough to tell a Hound. The Hound suggests that she add some nutritious liver to her basket and while she is doing so he sneaks off to the grandmother’s assisted living facility and shoves her out of bed and takes her place. Little Red Riding Hood, who neglected to put in her contacts that morning, nevertheless notices that her grandmother seems to have very long ears and smells funny. But then she notices all the wrinkles and is reassured. The Hound consumes the basket of food and sends her out to MacDonald’s for some fries.

The Princess and the Pea: A prince’s overly invested mother is determined that her daughter-in law be a real princess (aren’t they all?) One stormy night a beautiful wet princess turns up at the castle. Her wet garments leave nothing to the imagination and the prince is smitten. His mother, who really wants her son never to marry at all, is determined to prove that the shapely young woman is not really a princess. She places a pea under twenty mattresses and next morning asks the young woman how she slept. The young woman complains of getting no sleep and of being bruised. The controlling mother sadly thinks it’s because of the pea she put in her bed. The Prince definitely knows it’s because of the Hound he put in her bed.

The Three Bears: Three Bears go out for a stroll and foolishly leave their cottage unlocked while their porridge cools. When they return they find their porridge has been eaten, their chairs chewed up and their beds slept in. “Who’s been sleeping in my bed?” asks the Papa Bear. “It’s that large smelly Hound again you idiot” “I told you to lock the door but you never listen to me” complained Mama Bear. The sequel: The Three Bears Go To Divorce Court.

Snow White: A vain queen leaves her beautiful young rival to die in the forest where she is rescued by and moves in with seven Hounds. The Queen finds Snow White when she follows a suspiciously large delivery of Febreze and tries to kill her with a poisoned apple. But before Snow White can eat the apple it is stolen by a Hound upon whose cast iron stomach it has no effect. Snow White becomes exhausted with all the stench and the cleaning involved in keeping house for the Hounds and takes off with the first handsome prince who turns up. The vain queen asks her mirror “Mirror Mirror on the Wall, Who is the Fairest of them All? “We Are!’ bay the seven Hounds in the mirror.


Anyway with all this rain it’s been a pretty uneventful week—although I was awarded a new large stuffed dog to assuage the boredom and there was more baking to stick my nose into. And I did manage force down a record breaking 15 cups of kibble on Sunday which gave Maria an opportunity to eventually demonstrate her prodigious skill in one handed, one bag large pile poop scooping. It is a skill much envied by Elizabeth who has yet to master this essential art. But bad weather or no, a Hound has to keep his strength up especially if he wishes to retain his ability to pull with the force of a tractor beam. And speaking of tractor beams, a new Star Trek movie opened today. I am a big fan of Star Trek as we Hounds are nothing if not enterprising

Hound Trek

These are the voyages of the Hound Ship Enterprise, its five year mission to explore new worlds, seek out new life, new civilizations and new stuff to chew up and to boldly split infinitives and go where no one (with good reason) has gone before but which will result in high grossing movies and TV shows.

James T. Hound: Where is my crew?

Spock: Here we are Captain. I’m your first officer.

James T. Hound: I’ve never seen a Hound with pointy ears before.

Spock: All Vulcans have pointy ears, even the Hounds.

Dr: I’m Leonard McCoy but everyone calls me Bones.

James T. Hound: What a delightful name! When I was at Starfleet Academy everyone used to call me “Bras” but of course now that I am a Starfleet Officer you can only call me that in private.

Engineer: Aye Captain. I’m Scotty.

James T. Hound: Who let a terrier on board!

Scotty: Nae Captain. I’m called that because my name is Montgomery Scott. Also in the spirit of national stereotyping that pervades Starfleet I am a Scottish engineer. Ensign Sulu that Asian chap over there does all the math on the bridge, Ensign Chekov has the only Russian name anyone’s ever heard of and he plays chess and is very emotional. Lieutenant Uhura is a hot African intergalactic telephone operator. And there is always an expendable clean cut American male ensign who no one has ever heard of and who is going to get killed. But the main thing is that no matter how stereotyped we are we all unite against our enemies.

James T. Hound: The Klingons?

Scotty: No. The cats. We intend to boldly chase them where no Hound has ever chased before.

James T. Hound: Well our first mission is not against the cats. It seems that the Romulans are digging a huge hole into the planet Vulcan and are going to destroy it by putting brown matter in the hole.

Spock: But isn’t that what we Hounds do all the time?

James T. Hound: Yes, I know. But this brown matter explodes.

Bones: Why are the Romulans always running around destroying things?

James T. Hound: No one actually knows. They just do. Perhaps they like being villains—it certainly gets them attention.

Bones: But do we have to always correct them? Perhaps if we simply ignored their bad behavior or redirected their attention to something more positive? Maybe if they had some rawhides to chew on they wouldn’t blow up so many planets.

James T. Hound: Well if you had your head in a fully loaded garbage bin would you stop if you were ignored or if someone offered you a rawhide or a squeaky toy?

Bones: I see your point Captain. I guess gratuitously blowing up planets is in their genes.

James T. Hound: Anyway, we will use our tractor beam to pull them away from Vulcan…

Crew: Hurray! We love using the tractor beam!

James T. Hound: Yes I know. We all do. Anyway then we will board the vessel with our Phasers set to “knock over” and release clouds of debilitating gas. Then a special commando team, as directed by Engineer Scott, will lift their legs all over crucial bits of the anti matter engines and transport back here before the engine explodes. Any questions?

Scotty: Will there by any cats involved?

James T. Hound: No. Are you sure you’re not a terrier?

Spock: Can we raid the Romulan’s kitchen first?

James T. Hound: Sadly there won’t be time. But if we succeed I’ve arranged shore leave on the pleasure planet of Rigel Laundry Hamper Alpha.


I think I would have made a very fine captain of a starship as I make a very fine captain of the couch. And I am fortunate in having a very able crew who can be forced, manipulated, coerced, wheedled and charmed into obeying my wishes which are truly my commands.

It’s now time for us to pop over to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art where all this wet weather has influenced my choice of this week’s art: The Umbrellas (Pierre-Auguste Renoir 1881-86, National Gallery, London). Now this is a very unique painting (notice the lengthy dates of the painting) because Renoir originally started it in 1881 when he was still painting in the Impressionist style. Subsequently he became disillusioned with the impressionism for which he is best known and spent the rest of his life trying to define his style. In 1886 he picked up the painting again and repainted the figure to our left in a crisper more classically oriented style—he had been looking at French neoclassical paintings at the time—and with a slightly duller palette. Very interesting. But not half so interesting as when a magnificent Hound has been inserted into this wet Parisian street scene! Notice how several of the figures are looking at him with great approbation. Perhaps they are admiring his ingenuity in keeping himself dry with his own umbrella. The Hound presents a charming and unifying focal point for this otherwise dualistic picture. Wimsey’s Umbrella.

Well, I think that about wraps it up for this soggy week. I am off to do an un-rain dance.

Until next time,

Wimsey, Starfleet Captain of the Upper West Side

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