Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 54
February 15, 2008

Hello everyone, Westminster Wimsey here! I am now back on my couch on Manhattan’s Upper West Side recovering from my Excellent Westminster Adventure. And what an adventure it was. Last Sunday I was hustled through a final cavaletti practice in Riverside Park (I am getting quite good at pacing over these trotting poles if I do say so myself) and then received a double wash bath at the hands of my human Maria and her friend (and my current show handler) Elizabeth. Of course the fact that I was washed twice meant that I was fed double the usual amount of turkey to insure at least a modicum of compliance. It also necessitated that my humans fed themselves double the amount of cocktails in order to recover from the bath (as well as lots of towels and a change of clothing as they managed to get double washed too-- I believe in completely sharing the bath experience as we hounds are nothing if not generous).

And on Monday, much to my astonishment, Elizabeth, with whom I was enjoying a pre-Westminster sojourn (think cooked meals, naps on the futon and liver liver liver), rose at 6am. Now usually I have to wrinkle whip her at 7:30am to get any kind of matinal response out of her, so although something was clearly up at that hour it definitely wasn’t me. The idea of taking a pre dawn stroll in gusty 11 degree winds is of limited appeal even to a robust Hound like myself. The fact that I was curled up on Elizabeth’s bed atop her duvet had absolutely had nothing to do with it. But the weather made Elizabeth happy since for the first time this winter the arctic expedition wear she usually walks me in was actually appropriate. Now whilst Elizabeth fantasizes that climactic conditions in New York City resemble those of the South Pole my human Maria seems to believe that we are really wintering in southern California—her winter walking attire consist of a T-shirt, blue jeans and a light jacket (she frequently complains of being cold, and seems quite puzzled as to why—Elizabeth keeps offering items from her Arctic stash, but Maria generally takes one look at Elizabeth lumbering along like the Michelin Man and declines).

Anyway after a modest kibble, rice and turkey omelet we were off to Madison Square Garden in a chauffeured pet taxi with Elizabeth loaded up with our gear like a Sherpa heading for Everest. And what a fantastic experience Madison Square Garden was! There had been talk for weeks of “Wimsey on the bench” which I thought had a pleasingly judicial ring to it-- I always felt that I had a judicial temperament.


Second Circuit Court of Manhattan, The Honorable Justice Wimsey presiding

Lawyer: Your honor, this Hound is accused of stealing.

Judge Wimsey: And?

Lawyer: He stole his family’s entire Sunday dinner.

Judge Wimsey: Very enterprising. Not Guilty. Next.

Lawyer: This Hound is accused of disorderly conduct and creating a public nuisance.

Judge Wimsey: He’s a bloodhound. Not Guilty. Next

Lawyer: This Hound is accused of destroying public property—to wit a vast array of ornamental shrubbery in Central Park.

Judge Wimsey: Mayor Bloomberg can afford it. Not guilty. Next.

Lawyer: This human is accused of having a life.

Judge Wimsey: In all my dog years on the bench, seldom have I heard of a crime so heinous. The accused is sentenced to Life without Parole with a giant stinky Hound in a small Upper West Side apartment.

Well, being benched at Westminster is quite something—hundreds of people stop by to look at you and to admire and discuss you. And of course people who are attracted by your extreme good looks want to know what it is like to live with you. Now this is a subject upon which Maria can expound for many hours but boils down to this: “He stinks, he drools, he needs an insane amount of exercise and he doesn’t listen to a thing I say. If that sounds of interest to you here are the names of some good psychiatrists.” In politically correct parlance, I am a “special” dog.

And of course I was given frequent opportunities to walk around and stretch my legs which meant I was also afforded abundant opportunities to goose a transcontinental array of fannies. So many to choose from and so many new people who had yet to be introduced to the delightful sensation of shimmering gobs of wet drool landing in inconvenient places. And then of course there is the media. I gave several excellent interviews and the New York Daily News ran my picture and a story and the New York Post mentioned my blogging prowess. There were also two women from Columbia University TV (which was very exciting for Elizabeth as Columbia is one of her numerous alma maters --“those who can’t do, get degrees”) who interviewed me at great length about my credentials as a New York Dog (“Yes, Wimsey stalks squirrels by day and rats by night”).

And as for the show ring itself, what can one say? There we both stood, Elizabeth and I waiting to go on—Elizabeth in her Wimsey green clothes and me in my usual, elegant black and tan ensemble—when I started a preliminary vocal warm up preparatory to some serious ringside concertizing. Then out of nowhere came ASPCA volunteer co-coordinator Beverly (who Elizabeth had brought in to assist her --“If Wimsey takes off with me, throw yourself on top of him”) to shove a delightful stuffed lamb into my mouth! Well there are few things as enjoyable in life as having a stuffed lamb materialize out of the ether and into one’s mouth. This so distracted me that I forgot all about singing which saved considerable ear damage to those around me (like many fine opera singers I have a powerful instrument that does not admit of a restricted volume).

Now once we got into the ring I did actually trot and not pace (much) -- to the delight and astonishment of Maria who had been exiled to the nose bleed section in the hopes of improving my behavior (translation: Elizabeth is mean. Maria isn’t). Of course I did refuse to be stacked properly when the judge came to examine me, whereupon the judge commented in a rich Southern drawl redolent of bloodhounds, “Sometimes you just don’t have enough hands.” Personally I think it is just that I have too many feet—and none of them very cooperative. Anyway, even though I didn’t win anything, Elizabeth was ecstatic—when asked how I did she gushed “Brilliant! Wimsey didn’t take off with me, didn’t try to mount a bitch and didn’t bay!” This for me apparently constitutes a great success. Needless to say, much liver was forthcoming. Also ecstatic was Elizabeth’s friend, the always elegant Julie, who came barreling down from the stands to proclaim to Elizabeth “You look fabulous; so chic!” And Elizabeth was like “But we lost.” This seemed to puzzle Julie quite a bit—“But you looked fabulous! That’s such a great outfit! It was the nicest one.” (Note to self: explain to Julie purpose of a dog show).

Well after the judging festivities I was reunited with Maria (good behavior apparently no longer being necessary) and we all headed back to my bench for some serious Wimsey Worship. Elizabeth refused to take off her show clothes because it was such a novelty for her to be around me and not be dressed like a farmer (this complements Maria who favors looking more like a trucker). Not surprisingly people who know Elizabeth barely recognized her outside of her stinky jeans and baggy old sweaters (”Is it really you? Can we get a cheek swab to verify this? You never said you had a waist”). Allowing a bloodhound to dictate one’s fashion choices is not likely to land one on the pages of Women’s Wear Daily. And of course the ladies continually wonder why they spend Friday nights washing me instead of going out on dates. (“Wow that lady farmer with the bloodhound is hot! I love a woman in Wellington boots!” and “Yeah, but look at the other one! White Fruit of the Loom T-shirts rock!”). Nevertheless I am making a good start on decorating Elizabeth’s green suede show jacket with attractive patterns of white drool. I am hoping to create a bloodhound. Few Hounds can resist a blank canvas.

And as usual I was benched next to a beautiful female Hound (her name is Phoebe and she won an award of merit!) who seemed immune to my many charms and unimpressed with my melodious serenading. Lady Bloodhounds like ladies everywhere have an innate sense of their own superiority over the male which they like to demonstrate at every opportunity. It was all “Look at me and drool. Aren’t I beautiful?” and when you wax all enthusiastic, it’s all “OK, now get lost.” Perhaps I should sign up Maria and Elizabeth for lessons with Phoebe—after all she was perfectly groomed and looked neither like a farmer nor a trucker. And her people were fun too—when someone asked Maria what made her get into bloodhounds, they chimed in “Insanity.” Clearly these are people who are richly acquainted with the breed.

Well what more can I say—too bad it all had to end, but what an ending it was! A scent hound, Uno the beagle was Best in Show. Now Uno seems to bay in the ring and no one stuffs a lamb into his mouth, so I am thinking of essaying a few notes at my next show. Also Uno has a beautiful tenor voice quite complementary to my baritone so I think we should do a Two Hounds CD to provide fans with many hours of baying pleasure,

Anyway, it was quite a long day—my humans were in constant attendance on me until well after 8pm when dogs were finally allowed to go. And it was not until 10pm when Elizabeth finally got back to her apartment building. Upon arrival, she stuck the key into her mailbox and there was only one piece of mail. It was for me.

Well, now that we are back to our normal routine, it is time for another visit to The Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art (when not in her show clothes, Elizabeth wore a T-shirt taken from the Institute's collection: “The Birth of Wimsey (and Venus)” Maria declined the honor preferring to look like a more elegant version of a trucker—her T shirt was black). Today we travel back to ancient times to examine a masterwork from the Egyptian Book of the Dead depicting a purification ritual from the tomb of Sennefer who was a mayor of Thebes. Clearly the purification liquid was extremely valuable and it makes no sense that there was no Hound shown in the act of stealing it. This is the first depiction in recorded history of Wimsey Bath Night.

Until next time,
Wimsey, Hound of Westminster

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 53
February 9, 2008

Hello everyone. It’s me Wimsey coming to you direct from Wimsey World Headquarters on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Well, what a whirlwind week it’s been as preparations for my appearance at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog show on Monday proceed at a frenzied pace.

Last Saturday my human Maria and her friend (who is also serving as my handler) Elizabeth mounted an expedition to the wilds of southern New Jersey to a dog show at the Boardwalk Kennel Club. Now anyone who doesn’t think that stereotypes about New Yorkers are true has never met my humans. You would have thought that the ladies were mounting an expedition to southern Borneo instead of southern New Jersey. First they packed an entire supermarket’s worth of food and water (“I don’t think New Jersey has potable water, do you?” and “There might not be any food in New Jersey—we don’t want Wimsey to go hungry” and ‘Do you think we need to get shots?”). The trip began to sound like something that should have been financed by Ferdinand and Isabella (it’s a little known fact but New Yorkers believe that you fall off the edge of the earth when you leave the Island of Manhattan—except of course if you are going to LA).

King Ferdinand: So tell us Wimbus why do you want to mount an expedition to this New Jersey? Is there gold there?


Wimbus: No, but there are lots of chemical plants, does that count?


King Ferdinand: I don’t think so.


Queen Isabella: And are there many rich textiles to be found there?


Wimbus: Well, there is a mall at Short Hills that I hear is pretty good.


King Ferdinand: And are the natives friendly?


Wimbus: Well not the ones on the New Jersey Turnpike.


Queen Isabella: Are there wondrous exotic animals to be found?


Wimbus: I understand there are quite a few swamps (the natives refer to them as “wetlands”) which attract some interesting birds. Also there are some colorful species to be found in Atlantic City.


King Ferdinand: Well why would anyone want to go to New Jersey?


Wimbus: People in Manhattan ask that all the time.


Well, by the time we left, the Fairway bags were spilling out the back of the car-- and I mean this entire SUV (a generous loan from Maria’s friend Uncle Ray who like so many of my admirers loves me dearly just as long as he can do it from outside drool flinging range) was loaded for a single overnight trip—it was quite a spectacle. I was lucky there was still room for me (“if only we didn’t have Wimsey we would have so much more room.”) And my humans were lucky that they had me to conduct periodic forays to the front seat to make sure they hadn’t run out of gas or anything—I don’t know if they know that you can’t run an SUV on the contents of multiple Fairway bags. New Yorkers aren’t very good with cars.

Anyway, then we get to this hotel—The Marquis de Lafayette in Cape May across from the ocean—and check into a small two room suite which the ladies fill to the brim with all the gear they brought. And whilst I did enjoy walking around and smelling the sea air, let me tell you that being at a seaside resort in mid-winter is a lot like living in one of those post-apocalyptic movies—you know the ones where you joyfully shriek “Look! People!” when you see other human beings. Anyway, we all settled in for an evening of watching (what else) the Eukanuba Dog Show. And since Elizabeth had the arduous assignment of showing me she (and I) got the king sized bed whilst Maria spent a sleepless night on a sofa bed so bumpy even I wouldn’t get up on it.

Well the next morning we headed into Wildwood which is only 20 minutes away and pretty much of a straight shot on the highway. My humans were all “well it’s so simple we can’t possibly get lost!” They did. Forty-five minutes later we roll into the parking lot of the Wildwood Convention Center and we are on our way to the arena when we run into the Hound judge who just stares at me in my Halti (since prong collars are not permitted at shows, my humans think it is better to safe than sorry ((and in the Emergency Room)) and you just know that this judge is thinking: “Doesn’t that handler have any control over her Hound?” Well of course the answer to that is a resounding “No” but in the ladies’ defense it is not for want of trying, just a want of succeeding. (Maybe they should have invited the judge to take a turn around the Boardwalk with me while I am wearing the nylon string that serves as my show collar.) But at least the Halti is an honest admission of defeat—I saw several other shrieking humans being dragged to potty break exits behind large romping show collared dogs. However, as I was the only bloodhound I was awarded a ribbon anyway and we all headed back to the hotel for the few hours it took to pack everything all up again before returning for the judging of the Hound Group. (And needless to say, we got lost again—now this takes real talent. ((If they ever make a sequel to the TV show “Lost” it should be about Maria and Elizabeth in an automobile)). Anyway, once back at the arena, Elizabeth got all dressed up in her pretty Wimsey green show outfit and watched me take a 3-hour nap until the group judging. And who says showing isn’t exciting! (nap photo courtesy of Gina Ryan, North Star Collies, our new friend and show coach).

Now sadly I didn’t place in the group but apart from a bit of galloping (why trot when a gallop gets you to the liver faster) the ladies were ecstatic that I didn’t do anything actually disgraceful (it’s hard to do anything even remotely disgraceful when liver is being stuffed into one’s mouth. Of course where there is liver there is drool and I am proud to say that I soaked through Elizabeth’s matching green Ralph Lauren drool rag-- that Macy’s somehow markets as a washcloth). And of course I am sure the other handlers thoroughly enjoyed listening to the lively running dialog with which Elizabeth was attempting to entertain me—I expect at our next show they will hand her a Wimsey green gag. It was all pretty good fun but I did become rather fascinated with the elkhound behind me—that is certainly a rather strange looking Hound and one which I think bears further investigation (can I get my hair done like that?)—it’s on my Westminster “to do” list right up there with sliming folks in the benching area.

Well upon returning home (my humans having succeeded in finding the New Jersey Turnpike) I went to stay with Elizabeth so she could “work with me” (really feed me liver for reasons which are always unclear to me but seem to make sense to her). Now staying with Elizabeth is always an excellent gig (at least for me):

Life with Wimsey the Snoring Flatulent Dog (did I mention liver gives me gas):

7:30 am: Elizabeth still in bed. Give her a face full o’ Hound to remind her that the sun is up. Climb into bed with her to further emphasize the point.


8:00-9:30 am: Tow Elizabeth through Riverside Park. Attempt to dislocate her arm playing with off leash dogs. Resist all entreaties to poop; these things cannot be rushed.


9:30 am: Consume cooked breakfast.


9:35-noon: Nap on the futon. Snore loudly. Mount impressive display of flatulence. Keep an ear out for any activities that require my intervention and supervision, especially those that involve the refrigerator.


Noon- 12:30: Allow Elizabeth to use my bathtub providing I am there to closely supervise and make sure she is not eating turkey in the bath like I do.


12:30-1 pm: Afternoon run in the park.


1pm-1:30pm: Play satisfying game of Vacuum Cleaner (Elizabeth has this wonderful toy that she rolls back and forth in front of me so I can try and catch it).
1:30pm-2:30 pm: Nap on the futon (more s and f).


2:30pm-5:30pm: Work on the computer with Elizabeth. Read the papers with Elizabeth. Help Elizabeth with matters of personal hygiene. Organize the laundry and further assist Elizabeth with the housework (dust rags are almost as much fun as the vacuum cleaner).


5:30pm-7:30pm: Show training in Riverside Park. Manage to pace over at least some of the cavalettis—a feat heretofore deemed impossible.


7:30pm: Consume cooked dinner.


7:35pm-10pm: Watch television with Elizabeth (she likes to test her abilities to see through me.) Supervise Elizabeth’s dinner. Take another nap thereby enhancing the TV viewing experience with more snoring and flatulence.


10pm-11pm: Nightly walk—pee on all vertical surfaces on West End Avenue.


11: pm-7:30 am: Restful night of super loud motorcycle snoring accompanied by even more spectacular emissions of fragrant gas. (I do my best work at night).

Yes, it’s quite delightful to live with me. And of course Elizabeth always makes sure there many games in which I can earn valuable liver prizes (“OK, Wimsey. Do you want to know what you are playing for? Trot for 20 feet and a fabulous piece of the right lobe can be yours!” I think she watches too much daytime TV).

Anyway, the other delightful thing is that (at the risk of being accused of TMI) due to my recent anal gland problems my nether region has become somewhat irritated. So on the instructions of the vet Elizabeth must wash the area (think Hound bidet) and apply a soothing ointment twice daily. Well, this is fantastic, I can tell you! I love it. It is so relaxing—I sprawl out and thoroughly enjoy myself. I enter a higher plane of Hound consciousness during the procedure. It’s as close to an existential experience that a Hound can have. Plus it elevates human service to a whole new level. The tush ointment massage is right up there with the liver facial and the string cheese body wrap that I am planning to offer at the Wimsey Day Spa. It’s too bad I don’t get show points for having such a well groomed and oiled posterior.

Well, generally at this time we would pay a visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art. However, as my schedule is a bit crowded this week we will have to postpone that pleasure until next week.

Will keep you posted on the continuing saga of My Excellent Westminster Adventure.

Until next time,

Wimsey, The Only Halti Wearing Show Dog

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 52
February 1, 2008

Hello Everyone. Wimsey here. Well, what can I say? I’ve been Newfed! Last Saturday on our way to show handling class in New Jersey (only the strongest possible incentive can induce my humans to leave the Island of Manhattan, and in that wholly foreign conveyance, an automobile, no less!) my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth and I stopped off for an all too brief visit with our blog buddies Nanook the Newfy and his lively adolescent brother Pooka (http://nanookthenewfy.blogspot.com). I must admit that at first I was a bit apprehensive—the size of these guys alone is enough to give one pause, not to mention the fact that there are two of them—it was like being inspected by two mastodons or something-- and for those who have never actually seen me, no one has ever accused me of being petite myself (I weigh 125lbs). I had visions of becoming a bloodhound sandwich! But then these massive, majestic beasts indicated that perhaps a little game of chase might break the ice and off we went. It was all great fun, especially the part where I body slammed the charging Nanook to excellent effect (I knew immediately that it was to excellent effect because my humans yelled at me) but as Nanook had previously tried to hump my head I didn’t feel to badly about it (note to self: discuss basic biology with Nanook).

Anyway, these guys are non-stop fun and drop dead gorgeous. The only downside is that they are also incredibly well behaved, which caused my humans to cast a few jaundiced glances in my direction (“Why can’t Wimsey be more like a Newf?” and “Perhaps shaggy coat and obedient behavior are linked genes. Can we make Wimsey shaggy?”). No, really it has nothing to do with shaggy coats and everything to do with the fact that the Newfs’ owners don’t roll about laughing when they misbehave and even try to do something about it. For instance, like when I took a bite out of our hostesses’ sandwich--I bet the Nanook and the Pooka are firmly discouraged from such antics. But for me it was all (“Oh Wimsey. (sigh) Not again.”). And it was quite an excellent sandwich which means that the Newfs’ human Vanessa has the same outstanding taste in food as she does in canines.

Well the snack was very much appreciated as I needed all my energy for show dog class (and it is a well known fact that food tastes much better when it is stolen—nothing really worth having in life is easy to obtain). And I must say, the show dog class was fantastic! It was taught by a nice human named Gina Ryan (North Star Collies) and even though she is not yet a Houndite, I heartily recommend her for any type of training. Elizabeth was given multiple stern lectures about how she had to make everything fun for me and how my happiness was paramount to show ring success. For instance Gina observed that Elizabeth was merely carrying liver and chicken and it was all “Perhaps Wimsey would like some London Broil?” (Yes, in fact Wimsey would like some London Broil). And “You must play with Wimsey more! Entertain him! Don’t let him get bored!” So I am asking myself, “Can this woman come live with us???” Clearly she immediately took on board the Wimsey-Centric view of life that I have been trying so hard to inculcate in my humans. No matter how many experts my humans consult, they always receive the same disappointing (for them) answer:

Maria and Elizabeth: Namaste great guru, Maharishi Mahesh Houndi. Can you tell us what is the secret of life?
Guru: It is all about Wimsey. (and eating lots of green vegetables).

Maria and Elizabeth: Guten Tag Herr Philosophisch Professor Wittgenhound. Can you tell us the meaning of life?
Professor Witttgenhound: Logically speaking, that is a complicated question, but the simple answer is that it is all about Wimsey.

Maria and Elizabeth: Good morning Professor Houndstein. Can you tell us something about the composition of life?
Professor Houndstein: Relatively speaking that is a difficult question although objectively it is not. The Universe is composed of strong forces and weak forces. But the most important force is Wimsey.

And of course all the dogs in the class were beautiful and better behaved than I was which only means that my humans will have to work even harder to make it fun for me (or I will make it fun for them in ways they might not necessarily appreciate-- see entry # 16: Xtreme Show Handling).

Anyway, when it was all over, I did a bit of singing to entertain the class (and also to encourage Elizabeth to fork over the plastic water bottle she was holding) and then we all piled back into the rented car, turned on the GPS and headed back to Wimsey Island (this has a much better ring to it than Manhattan Island, don’t you think). Now this GPS thing is quite interesting—it is supposed to tell you where to go so you don’t get lost, but in spite of the fact that Elizabeth has absolutely no sense of direction and always gets lost, she refused to obey it (I wonder if she has any Hound blood). Not only that, but she talks back to it—including explaining to it at great length why it was preferable to take the Lincoln Tunnel rather than the George Washington Bridge. It didn’t seem to care. Now I may not be the brightest Hound (although I am quite clever, which is a different thing entirely), but at least I know better than to talk back to inanimate objects. However as useless as the GPS proved for her, I still think it has great potential:

Hound Positioning System (HPS)

HPS: In 3 feet turn left. Turn left. There is an unattended piece of chicken on the counter.

Hound: Excellent advice.

HPS: Recalculating. Go straight. In 0.0001 mile turn right. Turn right. Some idiot left the toilet seat up.

Hound: An excellent way to wash down the chicken!

HPS: Recalculating: Turn right. Turn right! There is a dirty brassiere hanging on a door knob 160 degrees behind you. Shred.

Hound: What marvelous directions!

GPS: Recalculating. Go straight. Go straight. In 20 feet, turn right. Turn right. In 5 feet go left. Go left. Ascend 1.3 feet. A lap has opened up. Crush human. Crush human. Crush human.

I think I could sell a lot of these devices! Anyway, preparations for this weekend’s outing to Cape May and my showing in Wildwood are in full swing. Elizabeth has a two page, color coded list of the things that I require for my maximum comfort and I am to be bathed yet again tonight---the ladies are testing some new finishing spray which is supposed to make me super shiny (it’s bad enough that they are using a chamois to shine me—what’s next, Turtle Wax?). Nevertheless, Maria is afraid the hotel will take one look at me and refuse to house us, but Elizabeth says that if she can keep a straight face she will just assure the front desk that I am a show dog and very well behaved. I’d pay good money to hear that! But I must say I am looking forward to peeing on sand.

The other good news this week is that my anal glands have been proclaimed much improved which means that I will no longer be carted to the vet’s on Sundays for the canine equivalent of a high colonic. I am already feeling purged and more spiritually pure. (If humans had anal glands, I am sure expressing them would constitute a costly spa treatment). And on that note, it is time for our weekly pilgrimage to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art.

Today we return to the Metropolitan Museum of Art here in New York to look at the work of society portrait painter Sir Thomas Lawrence:

Elizabeth Farren (Sir Thomas Lawrence, 1790, Metropolitan Museum of Art New York). Since we are so preoccupied these days with the success that beauty can bring, we have no better subject than Elizabeth (great first name) Farren, an Irish actress who later traded up big time and became the Countess of Derby. Kind of like “Sex and the City” goes Georgian. (I bet the relatives were thrilled and I suspect that the Earl, whose second wife she was, was short, fat and bald). Anyway, in this portrait Ms. Farren is looking at us and carelessly ignoring the fact that she is dangling quite an alluring piece of fur. How much more sense the painting makes if her carelessness has attracted the attentions of a fur loving Hound. Wimsey Farren.


Well just as reminder for those of you who might be available, I will be at Madison Square Garden on February 11th. My humans would love to see you, but be aware that Maria will not be at the bench with me until after my class (1:15pm Ring 6). She is voluntarily absenting herself in the hopes of improving my behavior (as if). But Elizabeth and crack ASPCA dog trainer Beverly will be happy to call her for you and arrange for a chat out of scent range of my powerful nose (New Jersey, perhaps?). And of course after my class Maria will be velcroed to me as usual.

So until next time when we resume

The Fabulous Adventures of Wimsey (or is it The Adventures of the Fabulous Wimsey?)

Wimsey's Blog:Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 51
January 25th, 2008

Hello Everyone. Wimsey here, coming to you from the Upper West Side of Manhattan or Show Hound HQ as it has recently become. My humans’ pesky birthdays are finally out of the way and my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth are once again focusing their energies on the monumental task of preparing me for Westminster. As part of all of this, I have just been talking with my good friend Julia Szabo who writes a column for the New York Post and blogs for fetchdog.com. Now although Julia rescues dogs (she currently has six) she is kind enough to take a journalistic interest (will let you know if any articles are to appear) in my Westminster preparations (from which I might need rescuing myself)!

As an example, Elizabeth has prepared a giant Excel spreadsheet with all of our equipment and training needs and schedules logged in with military precisions (as in Westminster T-minus 18 days, 18:00 hours, begin fading cavalettis; introduce liver bait; place Cherrybrook order). Given her interest in military history I am worried that we will be invading a small country rather than going to Westminster.

Wimsey: Commando Hound

Commando Wimsey: OK Squad. Listen up. Today at 0600 we are going to invade a hapless country. Bear in mind that the primitive humans we will encounter have never seen a Hound.

Hound Sergeant: Why that’s shocking! You mean they get to eat all their own food, sleep alone in their beds, go to the bathroom by themselves and take four hour walks alone???? And what do they do for drool? And who teaches them not to get too attached to material objects and who does the landscaping?

Commando Wimsey: Well, as I said they are primitive. Now listen, the operation calls for extreme stealth—so there will be absolutely no baying.

Hound Sergeant: No baying! But we always bay when we have triumphed! That’s like saying there will be no raising the flag at Iwo Jima. It’s what we are known for.

Commando Wimsey: We don’t want to frighten them—so no baying until Hound Air Patrol has dropped the earplugs. We must convince them that we are here to help them.

Hound Sergeant: But that’s ridiculous! Surely they won’t believe that! We are Hounds. We only help ourselves. It’s our trademark.

Commando Wimsey: Yes of course a helpful hound is a ludicrous concept, but they don’t know that. And viewed in a larger sense, we are here to help: we combat human greed, sloth, materialism, pride, etc. -- especially pride. And I agree that whilst some of our methods might not be pleasant, when they step back and look at the big picture they will thank us. So the plan is to charm, beguile and ensorcell. Charm is, after all, a force multiplier. By the time they realize what we are really up to they will be a subject people--like all the other subjects living under the Pax Houndus.


Well, anyway, when you add up all my equipment, Elizabeth’s equipment and my training schedule it is quite an undertaking. Normally I would object but since I am the focus of it all, it can really be quite pleasant. Especially now as the boiled liver is back. And whilst the liver does cause me to fly over my cavalettis in a lovely trot, it is so intoxicating that the prospect of its drool producing goodness causes me to lose sight of what I am supposed to be doing to obtain it. A two edged organ meat, if you will. I experience massive sensory overload and all my neurons act with but a single thought: LIVER! LIVER! LIVER! GIVE US THE LIVER! I can’t imagine why humans want to smoke crack cocaine or do crystal meth when there is liver to be had. I wonder if it is illegal to marry liver. Or to worship it. If I were in charge of decorating our apartment there would be paintings of liver on the walls (I wonder if Picasso ever did a painting of liver?), sculptures made of liver in the corners and all the furniture would be liver shaped. And of course the refrigerator would be stocked entirely with liver (actually these days it pretty much is).

And so powerful is the spell of the liver that frequently on my post-cavaletti evening walks I charge ahead, wholly preoccupied with liver and then it is all “Wimsey’s not listening to his prong.” Well really the reason I don’t listen to my prong is because the prong is not saying anything worth listening to. Is it saying “Run over there and say hello to that dog?” Or “Here’s a nice vertical surface on which to pee?” No. It is saying none of these things. I mean why should I listen to equipment that is saying something with which I vehemently disagree? Kind of like asking Mike Huckabee to listen intently to the speeches of Barak Obama. A nice idea but not gonna happen. Maybe some day one of my pieces of equipment will announce that it is the equipment of change and instead of telling me to slow down will tell me to go faster. Now that would be a message worth listening to! (I wonder if Barak Obama has a position on charging Hounds.)

Anyway, I have quite an exciting weekend planned-- beginning with tonight’s Wimsey Bath Night. Not only am I to be fed a great quantity of turkey while being washed, but I am also to receive a rubdown with a chamois cloth to burnish my rich coat into a glorious shine (Elizabeth read about this in some book, but I am sure the authors did not anticipate its use on a leather shredding Hound; I hear chamois can be quite tasty). In addition, I am to receive the second of my giant Christmas rawhides to keep me quiet while the ladies swill their cocktails and endeavor to recover from the maritime rigors of bathing me. I have suggested a cocktail based on pureed liver but the ladies don’t seem very keen. Clearly they have no taste

Then tomorrow we are renting a car and driving to New Jersey-- first to see our blog buddies Nanook and Pooka with whom in the way of cyber friendships we have never actually met. I am definitely looking forward to meeting canines who are even larger than I am and I expect that after seeing me in action their humans will thank their lucky stars that they have newfs and not hounds (a disobedient newf is simply not in the same class as a misbehaving hound). And then after I stick my nose into everyone’s lunch (I am hoping there might be liver on the menu) we are off to take a show handling class in Eatontown. It should be quite fascinating to be viewed by someone who actually knows what they are doing.

This time Elizabeth will be doing the driving (she of the “what exactly is the difference between north and south—is it anything to do with uptown and downtown?”) but I understand that she is wisely enlisting the help of a GPS device. Maria will be in the back seat trying to keep my head out of the rear view mirror and my body out of the front seat, as she fears I might be tempted to respond to the GPS voice commands and to assist Elizabeth with the driving. (“Do you think Wimsey will come when called if the GPS calls him?” “Can we program it to tell him to trot?”). And on Sunday, Elizabeth is planning another marathon Central Park walk so we can bond some more but really I will just bound some more. So all in all, the weekend should offer a plethora of opportunities for some stunningly unruly Hound behavior.

But before I rest up for all this merriment, let us visit the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art. Now today’s entry is rather special because our painting is in honor of New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art which has just reopened its painting galleries. In contrast to the frenzied nature of my life lately, I have chosen a painting that depicts some humans more sensible than my own enjoying a relaxing pastime:

Boating (Edouard Manet, 1874, Metropolitan Museum of Art). Notice the beautiful intensity of the blue palette and the unusual cropping of the painting which makes it feel as if we are about to step onto the boat ourselves. And of course we notice the feeling of light and air that are the hallmarks of all impressionist paintings. But see how much more relaxing the painting appears with the insertion of an indolent Hound lolling next to the sailor. Notice the helpful paw the Hound has placed on the sailor’s knee, alerting him, no doubt, to some navigational error he is about to commit. Wimsey Boating

Well, I think that is all for this week. For those who will be in New York, I will be at Madison Square Garden on February 11th. If you want to stop by the benching area, just look for a small human wearing a “Birth of Wimsey (and Venus)” t-shirt; Elizabeth is planning on wearing this Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art shirt (that is when she is not in the ring dressed in Wimsey green showing me) while she keeps me company on the bench (Maria will be wearing black as usual). So look for humans wearing artistic t-shirts, black clothes or a Bloodhound with the #12.

Until next time,

Wimsey, “show me the liver” Show Hound

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 50
January 18, 2008

Hello everyone. It’s me Wimsey, reporting from the sadly snowless streets of New York City. Last week we were expecting a monster storm and my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth were all braced for the additional hilarity that ensues when I am walked on snow. But, alas, the snow was not to be. The storm missed us, so I will have to wait yet some more until I can pit the proven prowess of the Wimsey Snow Tow against the purported traction of the Solomon Snow Clog and the Giant (ugly and expensive) Ugg boot. Anyway, I do like the way humans give storms names—I think Typhoon Wimsey has a certain ring to it, although to my knowledge we don’t get many typhoons here in Manhattan. I suppose I would have to settle for Blizzard Wimsey (or this year Snow Flurry Wimsey) which somehow doesn’t convey the same sense of drama. And as we know I am all about drama. And lately, I am proud to say, the continuing drama of my infected anal glands has engendered a cult following amongst Maria’s co-workers. Each day brings them another riveting installment:

All My Anal Glands

Vet: Nurse, look! Wimsey’s anal glands are infected!

Nurse: Will it cause him to go into a coma doctor?

Vet: I don’t think so, although the infection is being caused by an antibiotic resistant bacteria.

Nurse: Perhaps it will escape from Wimsey’s anal glands and cause a global pandemic?

Vet: Unlikely, but then Wimsey does like to spread the contents of his posterior about quite a bit.

Nurse: Nevertheless, maybe this isn’t Wimsey at all but an evil twin (or better yet—a clone!) who is bent on wreaking global havoc with his anal glands. Perhaps the real Wimsey is locked in a crate on the Upper West Side subsisting on kibble and water?

Vet: Well this animal does seem inordinately compliant, which as we know is not really Wimsey’s usual style, so he could be an imposter masquerading as Wimsey.

Nurse: How did Wimsey acquire this anal gland infection?
Vet: He doesn’t know—he has amnesia.

Nurse: That happens quite a lot. Anyway, it’s time to go commit adultery in the supply closet.

Vet: Righto.

Well, all joking aside, Maria’s colleagues do insist on updates on my anal glands, which makes me think that it is not only my humans who have too much time on their hands. And my anal glands are entertaining in other ways as well. For instance, Maria had a lot of fun the other day in the pharmacy explaining to the incredulous clerk that the prescription she had for an antibiotic eyewash was really for a dog (Maria wisely omitted to specify exactly how the product was going to be used; let’s just say my eyes were not involved). The prescription was made out with my name and her last name, which was certainly a weird sounding combination. But this is New York City where no amount of weirdness, even a person whose first name is Wimsey, causes so much as an eyelash to flutter. Anyway, I don’t see why I had to have Maria’s last name. Although we both come from old and noble families, I somehow don’t see her ancestors taking too kindly to this newest twig on their family tree (and also to the fact that with the amount of drool at my disposal I could create quite a few blots on their escutcheon). Personally I like to think of myself as being like all those important pop stars who just use the one name (although Prince sounds like even more of a dog than I do). But if I had to choose a last name, it certainly wouldn’t be Maria’s, since given the nature of our relationship, she should be using my last name. I think Wimsey Rules has a nice ring to it.

Anyway, as you may have surmised, I have been going to the vet quite a bit lately, an activity which I always enjoy—it’s another venue where I can be the focus of everyone’s attention and concern—although I do realize that liking the vet makes me a Hound of rather eccentric tastes, but this also goes along with my predilection for having my teeth brushed. Of course if you try to measure me, you will be in for some serious trouble. I never permit myself to be measured, not by ruler, tape measure or any surrogate method. This absence of quantitation makes Elizabeth crazy (“Show me the numbers!”) but I object to the idea of being reduced to mere digits. I am not “Wimsey, male bloodhound 27 inches high (aprrox.—no one really knows) 125 lbs” but Wimsey: Tall, Heavy, Loud and Insubordinate (and sporting a beautiful set of fine manly parts).

And speaking of numbers, because of all the time I have been spending at the vet’s these days I have become known as The Dog with the Golden Tush. The escalating cost of my tush is pretty impressive, I can tell you. There is talk of commissioning a painting to commemorate what is rapidly becoming the world’s most expensive hound tush. I fear that it will shortly become the most valuable thing my ladies own. (Assets: one emerald ring, two money market funds, one Manhattan co-op and Wimsey’s Tush). I hear the IRS is even investigating its tax status.

Well, in addition to all this tush worshipping my humans are spending a considerable amount of time engaged in full blown Westminster frenzy. For instance, today is actually Maria’s birthday and her festive plans include escorting me to cavaletti practice (where Elizabeth will continue on her quest to make me trot over those obnoxious poles), then some wine and pizza with Elizabeth whilst ordering a bunch of show stuff for me from Cherrybrook and finally designing a Hound Art t-shirt for Elizabeth to wear at Westminster (when she is not in the ring wearing her Wimsey-flattering green show clothes). Now Elizabeth’s birthday is on Monday and she is sneaking off to the shortest of long weekends in San Francisco so as not to miss too many days of my cavaletti practice. Her plans whilst in The City by the Bay: shopping for a green show skirt.

Anyway, the whole cavaletti thing has gotten of hand—Maria videoed Sunday’s session and Elizabeth was horrified to discover that although I look OK (when I am not throwing in a pace or two) she looks like the Leaning Tower of Groucho Marx. Honestly, I didn’t think it was possible for humans to run tilted both forward and sideways at the same time, but I guess they are more talented than I thought. She is now busy trying to correct this unfortunate posture with a series of ridiculous ballet exercises preparatory to gaiting me. So now people out for a stroll in Riverside Park are treated to the spectacle of a woman doing ballet exercises in front of a 36 foot row of white poles whilst holding a loudly baying hound. Personally, I think we are going to get arrested.

But there are some compensations for being forced to trot (I still want to be the first hound at Westminster to show completely at the pace—that eminently sensible gait where I use both legs on the same side of my body)—the ladies have read somewhere that they are supposed to make the cavalettis fun for me.

Wimsey’s Cavaletti Cavalcade of Goodies

First, there are The Squeals of Delight and lots of “Good boys” and “Look how beautiful Wimsey is!” when I trot. And I am like—“What else you got?”

So then after I complete a run Elizabeth squeals some more praise and then rubs me, scratches me and hand wrestles me—her version of trying to get me nicely riled up (a double edged sword that). And I am like—pretty good. “What else you got?”

And then Elizabeth produces something she calls a “scent item” but which is really just a rag that has spent some time marinating in her shoes and dirty laundry basket, and which she thinks might be fun for me to smell. Mostly I just want to shred it with my teeth, but it is the thought that counts. So I am like, “Nice, but what else you got?”

Then comes the pieces of turkey liberally applied to the houndly jowl—not bad, but there is talk of liver making a re-appearance next week (although Maria has some trepidation about this, having witnessed one too many bouts of Wimsey Liver Frenzy, and she fears for Elizabeth’s safety if there is to be liver involved). Then, when a sufficient number of practice runs have been completed, Maria makes her contribution to my enjoyment by inviting me to jump up on her whilst cooing saccharine phrases in my ear.

And as the cavalettis are packed up, I get to bay unrestrainedly without Maria and Elizabeth holding their ears and pleading with me to be quiet. Then we all go for a long tow in the park

Not too shabby, except that sometimes I just can’t help myself and I pace—at which point, Maria who watches from the comfort of a park bench yells “pace.” Elizabeth is supposed to stop immediately and return me to the start, but sometimes she carries on anyway, hoping I will resume a trot. Well I hope that aliens made entirely of liver invade New York City, but some things just ain’t gonna happen. There was some talk of blowing a kazoo in my ear if I pace but then it was determined that a kazoo would sound too much like the noise made by my favorite stuffed lamb and the pleasing sound would probably just induce more pacing.

(FYI: If you are in the area and want to see first hand whether any of this stuff has done the least amount of good, I will be shown at Madison Square Garden February 11th at 1:15pm in Ring Six).

So as you can see, things are pretty crazy around here, but as I am at the center of all the craziness I accept it with my usual houndly equanimity. But before I pace off to trotting practice, let us nip into the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art.

This week, we return once again to the oeuvre of Renoir for inspiration.
Two Girls at the Piano (Pierre-Auguste Renoir, 1892, Metropolitan Museum of Art). In 1891 or 1892 Renoir was asked to contribute a painting to the Musee de Luxembourg—a museum that was to be devoted to living artists. Renoir elected to paint a charming scene of domesticity, but see how much more charming and domestic the scene is if the girls are accompanying the singing of their large baying hound? And see how much the Hound is enjoying the performance. Isn’t he magnificent? Wimsey and Two Girls at the Piano.

Well, time to gather my strength—I am being cavalettied tomorrow morning before Elizabeth leaves for the airport (I told you my humans were becoming fanatics—I wonder what they will find to do with their time after Westminster?)

Until next time,

Wimsey, golden tushed Westminster Hound

PS: Last night I was cavalettied in the sleet. After what I am being forced to endure, I think I deserve to be carried into the Westminster ring on a palanquin.

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 49
January 11, 2008

Hello everyone. Wimsey here, and let me tell you I have witnessed the most extraordinary thing this week! In previous posts I have been complaining about those obnoxious cavalettis—the trotting poles that are supposed to help me prepare for my appearance next month at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show—well the cavalettis are breeding!!! I can’t believe it! First there were four large ones and now there are twelve smaller ones. Where did these instruments of houndly bedevilment come from if not from some infernal, dog trainer inspired cavaletti breeding program? Have you any idea what it is like to have to trot back and forth over 35 feet of cavalettis every night, while my human Maria sits there complacently with her backside neatly tucked into a park bench, judiciously observing the proceedings? All the while her over-enthusiastic friend Elizabeth runs back and forth squealing encouragement at me!? My life has taken a serious turn for the worse here. I despise trotting—it is so common compared to the majestic pace (for the uninitiated, pacing is when I move using both legs on the same side of my body) or even my hybrid gait, the “trop.” Anyway, although my humans misguidedly believe that I am not very intelligent, I have figured out a way to pace over these revolting poles. The difficulties I encounter in cavaletti pacing are so worth it when I see the looks of consternation on my humans’ faces (“Oh no! Wimsey is pacing though the cavalettis!” “How can he do that?” “It is not supposed to be possible!”). But after all, I am Wimsey the Wonder Dog: Master of Unexpected Inconvenient Behavior (“No training method is too much for me to handle... I train people and ignore their training equipment. I am… The Hound Whisperer”).

Anyway, at least now I can add pacing over cavalettis to my list of houndly accomplishments-- right up there with not coming when called and sticking my nose into people’s food and fannies. And speaking again of Westminster (which seems sadly to have taken over my human’s lives, if not mine), Elizabeth has been beetling around town like a demented leprechaun trying to find show clothes in my trademark Wimsey Green (green being my most flattering color). Other fashion ideas that were considered and fortunately rejected included an ugly gray suit with a pleated skirt (Wimsey fashion note: women’s derrieres + pleats are not a good look) and my personal favorite, a metallic gold suit (she thought it might look “festive.”) Now I suppose if the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show ever moves to Las Vegas we might be in business with that one.

Well all this Westminster activity has caused my humans to lose sight of the fact that we are in a New Year. And apart from resolutions that possibly include the acquisition of more green clothes, nothing has been done by my humans to institute a New Year’s Programme. In order to redress this shocking oversight here are my New Year’s resolutions:

Wimsey’s New Year’s Resolutions

1. Gain weight

2. Eat more fattening food

3. Do more drugs (my drugs come in rolled up pieces of turkey!)

4. Spend more money I didn't earn

5. Indulge my addictions (Greenies and stuffed toys)

6. Get more wrinkles

7. Remodel the apartment

8. Try new foods

9. Spend less time listening to people

10. Get more sleep (and enhance my timber rattling new snore)

And of course this year I truly aspire to be bred. After all, who would not want more of me? And if those cavalettis can do it…

And speaking of breeding (or related activities) I have recently become aware of a startling turn of events in world affairs:

CNN: Special Report: Crisis in France

Anderson Cooper: Good evening. I am Anderson Cooper. Here to help us understand this week’s shocking events in France, we have enlisted the aid of top French political commentator, Monsieur le Hound. Good evening Monsieur le Hound. Thank you for joining us.

Monsieur le Hound: Bonsoir Anderson. It is mon plaisir to be here.

Anderson Cooper: So what do you think about the astounding news that French President Sarkozy is carrying on with Italian pop star and model, Carla Bruni?

Monsieur le Hound: Mais… he is French.

Anderson Cooper: And how about those romantic photographs of him at the Pyramids when he was supposed to be working?

Monsieur le Hound: Mais… he is French.

Anderson Cooper: And what about the fact that he is only recently divorced from another former model?

Monsieur le Hound: Mais… he is French.

Anderson Cooper: I mean what would you think if President Bush suddenly took up with Britney Spears or something?

Monsieur le Hound: Mais.. he is not French.

Anderson Cooper: Well thank you Monsieur Le Hound for your insightful comments. Now on to our next top breaking story: Is Tom Cruise really baby Suri’s father?


Of course the other top story around here is that I have once again foiled a dastardly plot to cut my nails. Personally I have always believed that my nails are under the protection of The Guardian Nail Angel—how else to explain the fact that no matter how many different ways Maria tries to cut them (and she has been trying for three years, mind you) they remain blissfully uncut. My nails are like Samson’s hair, once they are cut I will lose all my houndly power. No amount of nail clipper wielding humans sitting on me are a match for my determination to retain my powers. Anyway, this week I had to undergo a procedure that required a touch of sedation (at the risk of being accused of TMI, it was to flush my pesky anal glands) whereupon Maria requested that once sedated my nails be clipped. I am sure she gloated for hours at the thought of finally achieving one of her major life goals. But were they cut? No. Not even the huge, talon like one on my front paw. No ones knows why they weren’t cut, but I do. It was The Nail Angel.

Maria has been flirting with the idea that I am nail retentive due to the fact that I was potty trained too early (can there be such a thing for a large breed dog?). Now I get so much exercise that most of my nails are neatly worn down so I don’t see why she insists on focusing on the ones that remain long—I occasionally find her glaring at the exceptionally long nail as if it is a personal affront. Perhaps she thinks she can lop it off by sheer force of will. And then there are the times she announces to Elizabeth with great certainty “We have to cut Wimsey’s nails.” This is right up there with “We have to train Wimsey” in the idle threat department, but I think she thinks that if she says it out loud she feels like she has accomplished something. (Elizabeth, who knows better, always answers “yes,” and then immediately trots off to do something that can actually be done).

Or perhaps Maria is engaging in what folks call “creative visualization” in which you visualize what you want to have happen in order to bring it about. (“I visualize a magic sword descending form the sky and lopping off Wimsey’s big nail”—which frankly is pretty much the only way this is going to happen. And for Elizabeth: “I visualize Wimsey trotting nicely next to me at Westminster and not baying or trying to mount the female dogs”). Could happen…in a parallel universe in which there is a well behaved Wimsey! (and not a universe I care to visit any time soon.)

Anyway, enough talk about things unattainable. We now move on to our visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art. This week’s piece was inspired by my human’s preoccupation with beauty (sadly not their own, but mine).

Venus at her Toilet (Diego Velazquez, 1599, National Gallery, London). Diego Velazquez was a leading painter of the Spanish golden age and this is the only surviving female nude painted by him (and in fact one of very few nudes from Spain of this era in general--the Spanish Inquisition taking a dim view of such displays of female pulchritude-- and they were a painful lot to get on the wrong side of). However, Velazquez painted his Venus when he snuck off to Italy (probably to escape painting yet another masterwork of the less than comely King Phillip IV and his lovely family, which, as the court painter, was Velazquez’ regular gig ) where he was undoubtedly inspired by the more body friendly art of the ancient world. Some people think that the painting is actually a portrait of his mistress which might explain her very modern, athletic looking physique (as Venus’ go she is pretty skinny—none of those usual rolls of oh so desirable rosy flesh here). It also might explain why Venus’ face has been deliberately painted in a hazy fashion (of course Velazquez could have been making a proto feminist statement as to which bits of the female body men really pay attention to, but I don’t think so). Anyway, since she (and we) can’t really see her face in that fuzzy mirror, the painting makes a lot more sense if our Venus is gazing lovingly into the extravagantly beautiful face of a (Westminster)Hound. Wimsey at his Toilet (of course in the modern vernacular this would be a painting of me in a Central Park bush).

Well whenever I get too full of myself, my humans remind me that “handsome is as handsome does,” which would mean that I am probably not very handsome at all. Nobody believes this of course—I am not going to Westminster so people can see how well behaved I am (I never would have gotten in!) –but it makes my humans feel better to say it anyway. Like cutting my nails.

Until next time,

Wimsey, handsome is as handsome is

Wimsey's Blog" Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry #48
January 4, 2008

Hello Everyone. Wimsey here wishing you a happy houndly 2008. My year got off to a rip snorting start (literally) as I spent quite a bit of the holiday nose to the ground aerating the dirt of Central Park (I know that the Park’s fragile ecosystem would absolutely collapse without me there to fertilize and turn the soil) and meeting greeting and sliming tourists. Although I must say, drool production is very challenging in the dry frigid conditions that we have lately been experiencing. My human Maria and her friend Elizabeth have to suit up in what appears to be hazmet garments to take a simple walk. I of course am impervious to the frigid conditions and like to take my time as usual on our perambulations --amid the desperate pleading of my humans to hurry things along. However, I never do, as the fact that the human body has temperature control defects not present in the Hound is not really my problem.

Of course here in New York City, the fashion capital of the world, humans take an inordinate amount of pleasure in dressing up their dogs in a variety of warm weather gear (one of my favorites being the big white pit bull who sports a red wool coat with the hood fully deployed. He reminds me of a Little Red Riding Hood who would like to eat the witch. Or maybe a Smurf that you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley). And this being New York, a city where everyone has an opinion and no one is afraid to share, the fact that I am not wearing a coat is cause for almost as much disapprobation as my much maligned, politically incorrect testicles. Not one of these fashion critics has given any thought to the practicality of actually wrestling my 125lb frame into one of these items or to the prevention of my ripping it off and using it for shredding practice (perhaps Maria should carry about some choice examples of the fine work I have done on her underwear) or even where one would procure a garment of the requisite size. Now while Maria handles all the “isn’t he cold?s” with a polite “he’s fine, thank you” (mainly because she knows if I weren’t fine she would hear all about it—we hounds being extremely devoted to our own personal comfort) but the ever helpful Elizabeth prefers to launch into an explanation of the heat retention ratios of large mammals (it apparently has something to do with a favorable amount of surface to volume), citing as examples many of the Arctic and Antarctic species and finishing up with the special adaptations of the bloodhound (we are rather well padded, and basically as long as there is scent to follow we are incapable of noticing much of anything-- from the state of the weather to the commands of our humans). I have observed that people seldom bring up the subject twice to her. (“Run! There’s the crazy woman with the bloodhound and the heat retention equations! She might make us do algebra!”) Personally, my strategy is to visit my hero Balto who is also conspicuously coatless.

Anyway, all this preoccupation with frigid conditions is about to change (much to the chagrin of Elizabeth who has been accumulating a wardrobe better suited to polar exploration than to walking me in the park) as we are about to get excessively warm weather. This means there will be even more tourists for me to meet and greet and have my picture taken with. Now that I am officially going to Westminster my humans cannot resist impressing all the tourists with this bit of information (even the ones who don’t speak English and the ones who somehow think I am going to London to advise the Prime Minister; “Wow when we were in New York we met a Hound so smart that he has been summoned to Westminster to teach the English how to dominate the world!”). As we know when people visit New York they expect to meet celebrities, so the flash bulbs pop when I am around. The other thing that I find is that being a show dog is a lot like going to Harvard—people imbue you with all kinds of positive attributes that you don’t necessarily deserve. So when people hear I am a show dog I am suddenly transformed in their eyes into a paragon of obedient well behaved houndly virtue. And the great thing is, that I garner all this admiration without any of the inconvenience of having to be actually obedient or well behaved. Which in my case is just as well.

Of course, all this fame has its dark side (no I have not gotten the neighbor’s dog pregnant nor am I off to rehab either)—in preparation for my appearance at Westminster (the dog show, not the Palace or the Abbey) I am cavaletti’d every evening. Now being cavalleti'd is pretty awful. First off, it means I have to abandon the pace and trot (although if the distance between the poles isn’t exact, I have figured out a way to pace anyway, causing wails of “How can Wimsey pace through the cavalettis. It’s impossible!” Well, not if you are Wimsey). Then to add insult to injury, the string around my neck is tugged and to emphasize what a happy occasion this is, Elizabeth squeals “Wimsey, let’s go” as if something really pleasant is about to happen-- like the sudden materialization of a pile of dirty laundry. Of course the string itself has its advantages because when I decide to pace off and sniff a tree, Elizabeth has to follow, shrieking for help. And when passing dogs appear, my ladies have to fling themselves on top of me to prevent me from pacing over to say “hi”.

And the human obsession with cavalettis doesn’t end when we go home either. Since there are actually only four proper ones that have been borrowed, both Maria and Elizabeth scour their apartments for anything remotely tube shaped that can be used to create some more. Tube shaped objects have suddenly become very exciting to them (you cannot believe how thrilled Elizabeth was when she found large rolls of old Christmas wrapping paper in her closet—it is not for nothing that we hounds subscribe to the belief that humans are somewhat feeble minded; any species that can get that worked up over cardboard tubes cannot really be taken seriously). But these faux cavalettis are kind of exciting to me as well, as I like to chew on them and getting me to trot over them rather than play with them is quite a challenge for a playful, zesty Hound like myself.

Anyway, January, in addition to officially being Cavaletti Month (“It’s January: have you Cavaletti’d Your Hound Today?”) is also the month of both Maria’s and Elizabeth’s birthdays. Now Maria is sensibly staying home and celebrating by taking care of me, but Elizabeth is thinking of sneaking off to Paris for a few days. If so she will undoubtedly require the services of that foremost exponent of French language and culture: Monsieur le Hound.


Learn French the Monsieur le Hound Way!

Monsieur le Hound: Bonjour classe.

Classe: Bonjour Monsieur le Hound

Monsieur le Hound: Avez-vous poopé ce matin?

Classe: Oui Monsieur le Hound, nous avons poope.

Monsieur le Hound: Et ce poop, c’est beau comme un sausage ou mushy comme le soft serve ice cream?

Classe: C’est tres beau, Monsieur le Hound, dur et firme.

Monsieur le Hound: Tres bien. Est-que vous avez fait le peepee sur Le Tour Eiffel.

Classe: Mais oui Monsieur le Hound; nous avons fait le peepee sur tous les monuments de Paris!

Monsieur le Hound: Tres bien. Ecoutez: Lecon 1

Au Restaurant:

Monsieur et son Hound: Vous avez la place pour une personne et un Hound.

Maitre d: Bien sur! Votre Hound est tres beau.

Monsieur: Merci.

Maitre d’: Voila! Un bifsteak pour votre aimable Hound.
Monsieur: Merci.

Maitre d: Voila une bouteille de Perrier pour votre Hound magnifique.

Monsieur: Merci.

Maitre d’: Il est comfortable, votre superb Hound?

Monsieur: Oui, merci.

Maitre d’: Peut-etre votre Hound extraordinaire desire une tarte pour dessert?

Monsieur: Oui. Le Hound aime bien les tartes.

Maitre d: C’est mon plaisir de servir ce Hound merveilleux!

Anyway, I am hoping that Elizabeth does not go flying off somewhere (although it would mean a respite from those dreaded cavalettis).

Well it’s time again for a visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art. This week, in honor of M. le Hound we travel to Paris via the eyes of Renoir: Boating on the Seine (1875, Pierre-August Renoir, National Gallery, London). Renoir was one of the original impressionists—those artists who hoped to capture nature on the canvas by painting outdoors with loose brush strokes. In this painting the artist uses the complementary colors of blue and orange to bring out the intensity of both. But this boat appears unbalanced somehow—both figures are skewed to the right See how much better the painting looks and how much more nature is captured with the addition of a large Hound who is also enjoying an outing on the river. Wimsey Boating on the Seine.

OK, I am off to hunt some cavalettis (the only good cavalettis is a dead cavaletti). And if you happen to turn on The Apprentice this week you will see the episode that I participated in—you may catch a brief glimpse of me or even better yet hear me baying in the background (I was considered for the task by the men’s team. But not chosen. Can’t imagine why).

Until next time,

Wimsey, a Hound for all seasons