Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 60
March 28th 2008

Hello everyone. Wimsey here reporting from Manhattan’s fun filled Upper West Side. And it’s spring! And in spring a young Hound’s fancy lightly (or not so lightly as we do nothing lightly) turns to thoughts of love. So really I blame my atrocious behavior at last Sunday’s Easter dog show entirely on Alfred Lord Tennyson who penned those immortal words (are we sure he wasn’t really called Alfred Hound Tennyson?) My human Maria and her friend (and my handler) Elizabeth were so incensed at my bad behavior that I am apparently in the Hound House. This is a lot like being in the dog house except that nothing bad actually happens because Hounds are just too cute to be mad at.

Well last week things actually did get off to a promising start—Wimsey Bath Night enrolled a new recruit—a dog loving photography student from Germany called Julie who is documenting my life, which is actually pretty difficult because every time she sets up a shot I immediately have an urgent need to face in the opposite direction or to shake my head or to lift my leg (although to be fair, this latter activity deserves a prominent place in any photo documentary of my life--my prodigious peeing prowess, even after hours of walking, is legendary). In any case Julie has many lovely, blurry pictures of my hind quarters, the back of my neck and my ears in full rotation. But I did allow her to capture my most intimate moment--the reverent worship I reserve for the sight of my dinner being cooked. (Elizabeth, who aspires to elicit a similar show of reverence from me in the show ring, frequently laments not being a turkey or a plate of scrambled eggs). But to be fair I do periodically bestow upon her my attentive “cookie face” just before I ram my muzzle into the pouch around her abdomen, causing the disgorgement of a cookie. She is kind of like a Pez dispenser for Hounds).

But I digress. Anyway, over post-bath cocktails we all got to hear about Elizabeth’s excellent German adventures when, apparently in her student days, she subsisted entirely on beer and wurst (and she also told us about the time she accidentally ordered pickled head cheese owing to her deficiency in restaurant German, Goethe having never introduced the topic of pickled head cheese in his oeuvre. More’s the pity. Personally I thought it all sounded delicious—there are no bad parts of animals only uneducated palates). But fortunately this discussion of all things German was rapidly superseded by a much more fascinating discussion of all things Hound and a good time was had by all. Especially me, which is the main thing. So sad that the good cheer was not to last, but into every life a little Hound must fall.

Well Elizabeth was worried that owing to it being Easter no one would show up at the dog show except a bunny. But guess who showed up! The love of my life, Phoebe! Now Phoebe is a gorgeous girl bloodhound who was next to me on the bench at Westminster and with whom I am profoundly in love. She is like Grace Kelly in a bloodhound suit—elegant, aloof and devastatingly beautiful. And wherever she is my nose must be, preferably inhaling the intoxicating perfume of her nether regions (apparently this is an honor rarely bestowed and many a young Hound has come close to losing a nose in the process). I am very much encouraged as my nose remained un-nipped, but as for showing with her around—out of the question! I paced (the gait that I am not supposed to do in the show ring where I use both legs on the same side of my body instead of the opposite side as in the trot) in a protesting and lumbering manner when being gaited away from her and galloped in a joyous and enthusiastic manner when being gaited towards her. And then I refused to stand with my nose pointing away from her and whatever Elizabeth’s talents might be, stacking a backwards facing Hound is not one of them Especially as I was straining heroically against my paltry, insignificant show collar to stand next to my love, who remained serenely cool and collected throughout. I didn’t win. That honor went quite rightly to the Magnificent Phoebe who stood and gaited like a lady—wholly unconcerned with the maelstrom of male emotions and energy with which she was being showered.

And as far as my spectacular non-gaiting, Phoebe’s owner was all “I am sure it was because Wimsey didn’t like the floor.” And my humans were like “We don’t think the floor had anything to do with it.” I am such a dawg! Like most mammals of the masculine persuasion, the prospect of female companionship drives all other thoughts out of my head. Such it is that species are perpetuated, even the noble bloodhound. (We take the admonishment to be fruitful and multiply very much to heart…. or wherever). And as I am not in possession of a surfeit of neurons in the first place (or so I am repeatedly told), the ones I do possess are just that much more easily overwhelmed by instincts of a less intellectual nature. So I join a long (and growing!) list of reviled males who loved not wisely but too well (the Immortal Bard understood, but then again Shakespeare was a product of Tudor England, where, if recent movies and TV productions are to be believed, people routinely threw caution ((and much clothing)) to the winds in pursuit of unbridled passion. The only thing that makes Elizabeth more apoplectic than my show ring behavior are the grotesque historical distortions employed in these Tudor defaming shows--- The Tudors being one of Elizabeth’s many fascinating hobbies (like The Wursts of Germany). If only she would devote the same amount of energy to the study of The Hound perhaps I would behave better in the show ring.

Court of Wimsey Tudor

Page: King Wimsey Tudor approaches! All Hail, Present Bottoms!

King Wimsey Tudor: Excellent. Excellent. Very fragrant today. Hey, you’ve been eating the Royal Kibble! Off to the Tower with you!

Hound Courtier: But it was left unattended. Your Houndhsip did not object when I stole the Hound of France’s pheasant!

King Wimsey Tudor: Very true. But the Hound of France is Our Enemy. He prances around, eats strange food with too many sauces and bays with an incomprehensible accent. I also hear he even likes to wears coats! And the Lady Hounds think he is very cute!

Hound Courtier: Yes, I heard about that.

King Wimsey Tudor: Why the other day I caught him with his nose so far up the Hound Consort’s bum that I was surprised he could breath. I get nipped in the nose for doing that! I was going to bite him, but then it was time for dinner. Although bottom sniffing is about the only thing his nose is good for—he is certainly not capable of using it to find juicy animals. Not that he needs to—the Lady Hounds like to feed him their food.

Hound Courtier: And I heard about the Masque.

King Wimsey Tudor: Yes he came disguised as a poodle! All that fur and pom poms! He’s a disgrace to the kennel. And of course the Lady Hounds made a fuss and pretended not to know him. Ridiculous! He reeks of garlic. And Crown Royale.

Page: Your Majesty, the royal architect is here.

King Wimsey Tudor: Excellent. Show him in. I am going to rebuild Hampton Court in liver.

Well what can I say. Spring brings out the romantic Hound in me. I will see Phoebe again in a few weeks at the Eastern Bloodhound Specialty in Harrisburg. Elizabeth is thinking of dipping herself in liver before I enter the ring.

And speaking of fun and frolic, that is the theme of this week’s visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art. We return to New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art to see a painting by Pieter Brueghel who, although Flemish, painted this picture during the reign of that uber Tudor Elizabeth I (The Harvesters, Pieter Bruegel, 1565, Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York). Now although very hard work, harvest time (like spring) was also a time for hearty rejoicing. Now see how the addition of a lively, roaching Hound adds to the festive atmosphere of Brueghel’s great masterpiece of peasant life! The Harvest Hound.

Well this weekend I am to spend with Elizabeth as Maria has snuck off for the weekend (I wonder if it is to get away from me?). And as usual I plan on being maximally disruptive (the only good Hound is an Annoying Hound) and also as usual Elizabeth has laid in a large supply of gin.

Until next time,

Wimsey , Prisoner of Love.

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 59
March 21, 2008

Hello everyone. It’s me Wimsey coming to you from the very beautiful (and now increasingly spring-like) Upper West Side of Manhattan. I am pleased to report that we have had no new scandals this week—unless (TMI Alert) you count the fact that the new governor of New York State and his wife have decided to share their marital peccadilloes with the rest of us. Of course this new governor did have the good taste to choose the Upper West Side for his trysts; a choice which I am sure was greatly appreciated by those of us who live here, like my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth (“See! Downtown doesn’t have a monopoly on celebrities behaving badly! Of course downtown it’s hot, hip actors who are misbehaving, not middle aged politicians, but at least Wimsey wasn’t involved. At least as far as we know.”)

Now all this honesty makes me wonder what would happen if I were forced to engage in full disclosure and to apologize to Maria for some of my houndly foibles:

I am sorry I ate your cookbook collection

I am sorry I grew to be 125lbs and take up most of your apartment

I am sorry I try to kill you going down the stairs

I am sorry that your walls, clothing and possessions are coated with drool

I am truly sorry each and every time I try to dislocate your arm

I am sorry that I don’t seem able to understand obedience commands

I am sorry that you don’t have time for a life

I am sorry that Elizabeth has to wear green clothes all the time to make me look good (people just think she is excessively Irish)

I am sorry for engaging in high decibel baying when I don’t get what I want

I am sorry for imbuing your clothing and hair with my fine aroma

In short, I apologize for being a Hound

Now if this litany were to continue no one would ever want to live with a Hound (or to elect a politician) so some things are best left unsaid. Plus it would spoil the surprise of discovering the daily joys of life with a giant, stinky insubordinate Hound. And I am only too happy to oblige in the surprise area—like flinging open the bathroom door with a hearty “Hello! I am here” at the most inconvenient moments or waking my humans up from some delightful dream with a face full of wet wrinkles. Not to mention their surprise in discovering that their intimate apparel has acquired ventilation in unusual places.

But I digress. It’s been a mostly beautiful week here in Manhattan—spring flowers are already becoming available to be peed upon and the strong March breezes are bringing fascinating air currents bearing tidings of fine new animals to chase. (Can Grom Gelato season be far behind? My humans so enjoy buying me $5 cups of the stuff). Yes, spring is a magical time and I am a magical Hound. Not only do I possess the Magic Dewlap which instantly pushes all hound control equipment down to a useless position at the base of my neck but I also possess a magical odor that stops other canines in their tracks. Now I generously donate Elizabeth’s time on Saturdays to the ASPCA and I always insist that she wear jeans impregnated with this magic Wimsey scent (not that she has any jeans that lack this odoriferous enhancement) as protection (kind of like a denim amulet) and voila! Misbehaving or rambunctious animals are instantly brought under control as their noses are irresistibly drawn to hoover Elizabeth’s pants (I could sell these as Siren brand jeans). The result is that these beasts magically decide to behave as one whiff of Elizabeth convinces them that she is just an exceedingly weird, misshapen Large Hound Who Must Be Obeyed. But then it’s all “How come Wimsey’s magic pants don’t work on Wimsey?” Sad but true--- I am magically deaf to all things humans have to say, except when they say it with Liver. (Fortunately Maria does not need her cookbooks to learn how to boil it for me). I am thinking about a new Liver related business I can open:

Wimsey’s Bar and Grill

Cocktail Menu

Livertini: Delectable chilled, pureed liver, a sprinkling of vermouth served up or on the rocks with a twist (of liver)

Houndriver: Scrumptious blend of liver and fresh squeezed orange juice. Served with a slice of liver

Bloody Liver: Tangy blend of tomato juice and liver. Served with a stick of liver

Hound on the Beach: Sexy blend of liver, cranberry juice, grapefruit juice and peach schnapps

Mohoundo: Refreshing combination of muddled fresh mint leaves, liver and a splash of soda. Garnished with a sprig of liver

White Russian Hound: Farm fresh cream, liver, kahlua. Served up or over ice with shaved liver

Houndarita: A favorite with the Texas hounds: liver, triple sec, fresh lime juice and sugar. Served in a glass rimmed with liquefied liver

Hound Sun Rise: Invigorating mix of liver, orange juice and a splash of grenadine for a color

Cosmopolitan Hound: Sophisticated combination of liver, Cointreau and cranberry juice

Hounda Colada: Tropical delight made with liver, coconut milk and pineapple juice. Served with slivered liver

Menu

Grilled Liver
Sautéed Liver
Deep Fried Liver
Poached Liver
Barbecued Liver
Roasted Liver
Liver Stew
Broiled Liver
Carpaccio of Liver
Liver tartare
Liver Fingers
Fricassee of Liver
Liver stuffed with Liver Pate
Liver Sausage
Liver Burger
Chef’s Surprise: Liver of a Mystery Animal
Liver of the Day
Chef’s Special: Just Liver

Can you just imagine! There would be lines around the block. It could be like McLiver. Of course I just might start small—Wimsey’s Liver Pub has a certain ring to it.

Anyway, the other news of the week is that I have a new member of my entourage—a photography student from Germany who is photographing me as part of her final project. She is very talented and I am very beautiful so I am sure she will get an A. Tonight she is braving the rigors of Wimsey Bath Night in order to document my turkey laden ablutions (do they make waterproof camera lenses) and she is coming with us to my Easter Sunday show in West Orange New Jersey (I could be the first show dog in history to be defeated by a bunny). She will have many photographs of Wimsey Not Trotting, Wimsey Not Stacking, Wimsey Baying at the Other Dogs, Wimsey Rebelling Against his Halti, and Wimsey Flinging Drool on the other participants. And of course there will be a plethora of photos of Elizabeth, the Un-jolly Peeved Green Show Handler.

Anyway, before I go and prepare myself for Wimsey Bath Night it is time for us to visit the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art. I think it only fitting that since there has been so much trouble relating to female pulchritude that the visit include a famous Titian from the collection at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art: Venus and the Lute Player (Titian, 1865, Metropolitan Museum of Art). Now although Titian was a Renaissance artist and therefore inclined to engage in much classical inspired nudity, I think that the lady in the painting would create much less trouble if she displayed far fewer of her charms (especially as she looks as if she could stand to spend a few more hours in the gym and a few less at the table). See how much more tasteful the painting looks with the addition of a Hound covering her naughty bits. Now she is much less likely to incite the rampant appetites of New York’s passionate and romantic governors (who knew we were such a hot blooded state! It’s just another illustration of how one can’t judge a book by its cover---just like when people think I look mellow. And sweet. And intelligent. And well behaved.). Wimsey and the Lute Player.

Well that’s it for this week. Happy Easter Everyone!

Until next time,

Wimsey the Easter Hound

PS: Wednesday was my 4th birthday so here is my (Wimsey Green) birthday hat montage.

Wimsey's Blog; Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 58
March 14, 2008

Hello everyone. Wimsey here reporting from the ever exciting precincts of New York City. And what a week we’ve had! Last week’s publishing scandal revolving around a California gang members’ memoir that turned out to have been written by a nice prep school girl, has been totally eclipsed by the goings on of our state’s esteemed governor Eliot Spitzer (has anyone else noticed the shocking attrition of tri-state governors due to sex scandals—maybe it’s something in the water).

Anyway, this is just one more piece of evidence to support the notion that I would make a much better governor than ex-Governor Spitzer, whose main problem (apart from believing that governing the Empire State entitled him to belong to the Emperor’s Club) is his singular lack of charm. Apparently no ones likes the guy very much (or at least not without some cash changing hands) and charm is an area in which I really excel:

NY State Senate Majority Leader Bruno: Governor Wimsey wants to increase taxes by 300%!

NY State Senate Minority Leader Tedesco: I know. But he’s so cute! Let’s do it!

NY State Senate Majority Leader Bruno: But he wants to use the money to build dog parks.

NY State Senate Minority Leader Tedesco: Look at those wrinkles! And those ears! And he looks so thoughtful and so intelligent!

NY State Senate Majority Leader Bruno: He also wants to declare war on Pennsylvania. He says they are impeding the free flow of squirrels.

NY State Senate Minority Leader Tedesco: Quite right. I will mobilize the militia immediately! Look how adorable he looks sitting in that big chair behind the governor’s desk.

NY State Senate Majority Leader Bruno: Has he signed those bills we left for him yet?

NY State Senate Minority Leader Tedesco: No, he ate them.


Now like ex-Governor Spitzer I too have a taste (quite literally) for the professional ladies – only in my case they are called handlers which is not really quite the same thing— although personally I wish they’d handle me more and scold me less. But my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth are now very worried that I too could create a scandal:

Scandalous Things That I Wimsey Could Do:

Come when called

Refrain from sticking my nose into everyone’s food

Refrain from sticking my nose into everyone’s derriere

Heel

Use my indoor voice when baying

Not try to annihilate my humans when going down the stairs

Not try to rub my Halti off on people’s legs

Have a messy chew with my rawhide on the carpet instead of on a lap (when I am
done it looks like someone forgot their adult diapers)

Move a considerate distance when flinging drool

Move a considerate distance when passing gas (although to be fair I do alert my humans to this exciting event by turning around and staring intently at my fanny)

Walk in the same direction as the person holding my leash

Leave the recyclables unshredded

Avoid pooping on plants containing nettles or thorns.

If any of this actually came to pass there would be headlines in the tabloids such as “Canine Shocker: Hound Obeys Human! Scientists studying this unprecedented phenomenon” and “Wimsey Ill!” and then I would be whisked off to the vet. So however much I might like to create a scandal, being rushed to the vet (not to mention forfeiting the esteem of my fellow Hounds) would be just too great a sacrifice to make. We Hounds never engage in self destructive behavior--we specialize in getting others to engage in self destructive behavior —a further measure of our superiority over humans. (And of course I can always be neutered.)

But speaking of being handled by ladies, I had a terrific show in White Plains last Sunday. It all began with another successful edition of Wimsey Bath Night, replete with turkey, cooked dinner, a bully stick and much canoodling with the yours-non-smelly- truly (amazing how the lack of my fine houndly odor causes my humans to joyfully bury their snouts in my lustrous coat—some New Yorkers snort cocaine, mine snort Hound). And on the way home I had umbrellas held over me (my bath takes place at Elizabeth’s as her generous sized tub is better suited to my distinguished proportions—also she fixes better post bath cocktails, a crucial feature of Wimsey Bath Night) whilst my humans got soaked in the rain. So on the whole it was an immensely satisfying night.

Then on Sunday we all headed to White Plains where I got a fine pre-show walk in a wooded area next to a highway that looked very much like the kind of place that bodies are discovered, so I was quite hopeful (“CSI: Wimsey”). But alas there were no bodies and as soon as the ladies hauled all my gear into the Westchester County Center I was greeted with a cheery ‘Hi Wimsey!” from a very talented junior handler I met in show handling class (notice he didn’t say “Hi Maria” or “Hi Elizabeth”—I doubt he even knows their names). And once again I was the only bloodhound (and the only animal wearing a Halti—it makes such an excellent impression on show judges) and consequently was made a huge fuss over by the nice ladies taking the tickets as well as lots of people attending the show. I was Hound # 5 (which is a lot better than being client # 9) and during my quick trip to the breed ring I put on a masterful demonstration of pacing (pacing uses the legs on the same side of my body instead of those on the opposite side as I am supposed to do to produce a trot) much to the consternation of Elizabeth who once again risked life and limb to take me into the ring wearing only a string around my neck (she was quite proud, however, of her new Wimsey Green ((green being the color that best shows off my fine reddish color)) headband and was hopeful that its beauty and harmony with her Wimsey Green outfit would blind the judge to my gaiting deficiencies). It didn’t work, but noting my lack of attention, the kindly judge opined that perhaps I was looking for a nice lady bloodhound-- at which point the color drained from Elizabeth’s face.

Anyway while I waited to go into the group ring with the other Hounds I was busy being photographed, admired and petted by all and sundry. A colleague of Maria’s was in attendance (I climbed on her) and Elizabeth shined me to a blinding glare with a chamois cloth. Now as long as there are no further detailing activities (such as nail cutting or ear cleaning or turtle waxing) I quite enjoy being massaged endlessly with the chamois and admonish Elizabeth in no uncertain terms when she ceases chamoising.

However all good things must come to an end (including my good behavior) and as I was waiting to enter the group ring I decided to engage in a bit of singing. Then I found the most amazing smell and proceeded to glue my nose to its spot on the ground. To no avail did Elizabeth squeak and brandish liver—I remained unmoved. It was all she could do the haul me into the ring (another way to make an excellent impression on the judge) but I did lull her into a false sense of security by actually trotting. Of course such model behavior was too good to be true.

Now Elizabeth believed that she had already seen all the bad show ring behaviors about which she had to worry (pacing, baying, refusing to stack, gaiting with my nose on the ground, being distracted by the lady bloodhounds) when suddenly, I Wimsey, ever the creative Hound genius, added a new one to the repertoire—I drooled on the judge! This accomplishment was all the more impressive because Elizabeth had only moments before wiped my mouth with her Wimsey Green Ralph Lauren washcloth (only the finest for me). But I did it! I managed to produce drool with lightening (and frightening) speed which I adroitly transferred to the judge’s hand. And it was all “He drooled on me!” while he held his hand well away from his nice suit. And when he requested the use of Elizabeth’s rag, Elizabeth compounded his consternation by first wiping my mouth with it before handing it over to him! (drooling on the judge’s hand is one thing but the prospect of me flinging drool and sliming his suit was quite another and compelled Elizabeth to triage the drool rag’s deployment—probably not a decision that was popular with the judge to whom there was no time to explain its rationale ((“At Wimsey’s current rate of drool production of 2.5 millimeters per second his total fling volume could easily attain or exceed 5ml in the amount of time equal to or less than the time it takes to wipe your hands, a volume that I estimate could deleteriously impact the future utility of your suit.”)).

I didn’t win.

But we all had a wonderful time in White Plains and we only got lost once going home.

I am to be shown again on Easter Sunday in West Orange, New Jersey (my humans forgot how early Easter came this year and accidentally signed me up) and this time I will get to go into the breed ring with four other real bloodhounds. Hurray! (and two of them are female!) Unless of course everyone else forgot it was Easter too and it will be me and a bunny in the ring (Judge: “I don’t know. I like the looks of that bunny. He’s got great ears and an elastic gait and doesn’t drool”).

But the glamour of the show ring aside, the major event here has been that we changed the clocks early which means the reinstatement of my long (and increasing) evening Central Park walk. And it was a chance to catch up with old friends like Jacques the French bulldog puppy (who is now almost one—he used to ride on my back) and to make new ones like Humphrey the basset puppy. Now Humphrey’s owner really wanted a bloodhound but prudence dictated that if one is going to acquire a Hound it is best that it be one that can be picked up and carried off when it misbehaves. That at least is an indignity I will never suffer. Humphrey is delightful (although strangely quiet, but he is young yet) and we had a great time trying to out Hound each other for a stick.

And then we met a couple of gentlemen out for a stroll with their dogs and as we were all chatting and sniffing bottoms (at least the dogs were) one of them asked if anyone fancied some Cote de Rhone. And then out of a perfectly ordinary jacket he produced a full bottle of Cote de Rhone, a corkscrew and cups (like an adult version of Mary Poppins’ carpetbag!). Now however appealing the idea of sipping a full bodied red on a blustery March evening might seem, the concept of doing so with 125lbs of vigorous Hound at the other end of a leash gives one significant pause. My humans regretfully declined (”…maybe if it were a Lafitte”) electing instead to live another day. Now these are the kinds of extraordinary things that happen to one in New York City. Call me prejudiced but I would sincerely doubt if one finds wine bar toting strangers out for a bit of air with their dogs in the parks of London, Paris or Tokyo.

Well it is time again for our weekly visit to The Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art. And since we have been discussing fun in the park, let us take a look at Girl With a Hoop (Pierre-Augusta Renoir, 1885, National Gallery, Washington DC). By the time he painted this, Renoir, who was among the best known impressionists, had broken with the movement and was exploring new ways to paint (like me always searching for newer and more artistic ways to be disruptive in the show ring). In this painting he employed a more disciplined technique using tighter brush strokes while striving to retain the luminosity of color that characterizes impressionism. Very laudable, but the little girl in the picture looks very lonely and her hoop very tempting. How much nicer a picture with the addition of a large playful hound chewing on her hoop! In our imagination we can see the endless amounts of fun she will have trying to get the hoop away from the Hound and how much quicker he will be than she is to catch up with it when it rolls. Wimsey With a Hoop.

Well this week we have several exciting upcoming events: tomorrow is the Ides of March so I would avoid any unnecessary trips to the Senate and avoid knife wielding friends named Brutus. And on Monday it is St. Patrick’s Day and Elizabeth is pretty excited as, thanks to me, she already has an entire wardrobe of green clothing. (For a discussion of the actual holiday I would refer you to post # 8—last year’s St. Patrick’s Day entry and one of my personal favorites as it discusses my distinguished ancestry.) Then on Thursday, March 19th it is my fourth birthday! On this day I get to do anything I want, eat anything I want and receive much tribute. Just like every other day. (But I hear a rumor that Maria is making me the Norwegian cream cake that Nanook the Newfy (nanookthenewfy.blogspot.com) gets on his birthday). And perhaps the wine guy in the park will offer me a glass of Cote de Rhone this time. Until then I pledge to refrain from all scandalous activities—such as obeying commands—that might force me to resign my bloodhoundship.

Until next time

Wimsey, a True Hound of New York

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 57
March 7, 2008

Hello Everyone. It’s me Wimsey and what a fine week I have had here in New York City. And there is still more to come as tonight is Wimsey Bath Night in honor of my being shown on Sunday—personally I think the natural fragrance of the Hound could only enhance my show ring charms but my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth disagree. So who am I to argue with fistfuls of in-bath turkey and a cooked dinner and a bully stick to follow? The ladies, as usual, will be swilling (or attempting to swill, as swilling can be difficult in the presence of a giant Hound nose) Elizabeth’s signature cocktail, the caipirnha. She even puts on Brazilian music to swill by. It’s just like being in Rio! (Without the hot weather, the sunshine the beach, the food and all the good looking men).

But the dog show means that I will miss my Sunday in the park this week. Last week’s expedition consisted of five—count ‘em—hours and was thoroughly enjoyable although
sadly it didn’t end up snowing. The fun began in the morning when Maria and I rendezvoused with Elizabeth at the coffee shop where she habitually ingests the massive amount of calories and caffeine that she claims are necessary for coping with me (or that’s her excuse, anyway—“Something about Wimsey always makes me reach for the Starbucks or the gin”). And of course when she emerges from the coffee shop, it’s definitely a show stopper on Amsterdam Avenue -- I place my front feet on her shoulders, point my elegant muzzle skywards and bay (triumphantly) right in her face! The production of the triumphant bay require the full skyward muzzle tilt (making me as tall as Elizabeth—which is not saying much as she is rather shrimpy, but it’s still quite satisfying) and is of a higher pitch and a more extended duration than my other bays, making it even more ear splitting (for her) and even more attention getting (for me). Everyone seems to enjoy my performance quite a bit -- except Elizabeth of course, but her opinions never count for very much in any case.

Well after my greeting and the subsequent attention that it elicited from passers-by, my humans made the fatal mistake crossing the street and placing me within bolting range of one of my favorite pet stores (is there such a thing as an unfavorite pet store?). Well as the predictable leash struggle ensued, a helpful clerk popped out of the store to inform Elizabeth that if only she would place my prong higher up on my neck she might enjoy greater success in her Wimsey Control endeavors. “Thank you, I know” she replied through gritted teeth. But of course what the helpful clerk did not know was that: 1) the equipment has not yet been invented that is any match for a determined Hound and 2) through the Miracle of the Hound Dewlap all equipment is made to instantly slip down my neck and into the least effective position. I like to think that this slippery dewlap is one of the more useful adaptations of Hound evolution. (perhaps all intelligent life did not evolve from sea sludge, but from a race of clever prehistoric Hounds:

Wimsey Productions presents:

10,000 Years BC: A Time When Giant Hounds Roamed the Earth
(“It takes a Hound to change the World”)

Primitive human #1: Oh no! The earth trembles! The ear drums split! The Hounds are up. The massive yellow showers cannot be far behind!

Primitive human # 2: And then avalanches of steaming mounds are sure to follow!

Primitive Human # 1: Yes, but those aren’t so bad—they make excellent climbing once they dry out.

Primitive human # 2: But that is a dangerous sport-- the beasts like to stick their immense vacuuming noses into the mounds—they inhaled Inik the other day!

Primitive human #1: True, inhalation is a risk but at least I can avoid being trampled upon by their massive feet.

Primitive human # 2: And being sliced by the Nails that Can Never Be Cut. Is it true that they lose their powers if their nails are trimmed?

Primitive human #1: Absolutely! The Nail is sacred to them. Anyway, at least we are not tall enough to be caught in a tail swipe—they took out a whole forest yesterday.

Primitive human #2: Was that before or after they raided our camp and stole all of our food?

Primitive human #1: Before. They whet their appetites by chewing up the felled trees.

Primitive human #2: Well it’s bad enough to lose all of our food and the forest but I hate getting trapped in that sticky gunk that comes out of their mouths-- although it is useful gluing clothes together.

Primitive human #1: Yes but the sticky gunk is better than the clouds of noxious fumes that come out the other end –our neighbors had to spend the entire day in their flatulence bunker.

Primitive human #2: How come we have to have them around anyway?

Primitive human #1: Because they’re Hounds. Life would be terrible without them!


Anyway, after being pried off of the pet shop door we dropped by the vet’s office so I could be made a fuss over by Monica the receptionist and my humans could leave an update for the vet on the resolution of my anal problems; I was able to personally convey my thanks for his prescribing of the delightful warm water washing and soothing ointment massage (I am in favor of the treatment continuing even though I am cured and often look longingly at the shelf where the ointment is kept, but then it’s all “Wimsey don’t be disgusting.”). Well after being fussed over by Monica we all paced over to Riverside Park for some trotting practice. (When Elizabeth was bringing down my cavalettis the gentleman manning the service elevator apparently went white at the sight of them and squeaked “He’s back??!!” -- I stayed with Elizabeth before Westminster and obviously made a huge impression on the service elevator crew). Then after a few grudging passes over the poles (I hate trotting) some neighborhood children decided they could do better—Elizabeth was so excited to see an actual trot that she had to restrain herself from squealing “Good trot!” and stuffing liver into the mouths of the little tykes. Somehow I don’t think they would have appreciated that, although their mother might (“Do you have any broccoli too?”)

And then after show dog practice it was off to Central Park with Elizabeth (Maria having decided that perhaps it might be useful to pretend to have a life for a day). Well, what can I say—the weather was magnificent and we met so many lovely people and dogs (I attempted the inhalation of an entire greyhound) and of course they all wanted to make a fuss over me. Sometimes I do wonder what it would be like to be a regular dog and go about the business of sniffing and peeing unnoticed by the masses, but then I remember the policemen who fed me their breakfast sandwiches and I think maybe it wouldn’t be such a good thing. But fortunately I don’t have to do much-- I am famous just for being a bloodhound in a place where we are scarce (although I did not appreciate the fellow last week who thought I was a basset-great Dane mix, but I suppose he was an improvement over the guy who thought I was a Doberman-St. Bernard cross and I do get mistaken quite a bit for The World’s Largest and Most Unusual Looking Shar-Pei).

Now although I can’t help being (in) famous I notice that humans actually seem to go to extraordinary lengths to achieve fame. This week New York publishing circles are abuzz with the fact that a new book which was supposed to be the memoir of a former South Central LA California gang member was in fact written by a privileged young woman from Sherman Oaks. Her publisher’s attempts to check her identity were met with the assertion that everyone she knew was either dead or in prison (and I bet they would have believed that the dog ate her homework too). So now I am thinking that if no one wants to publish my children’s guide to New York City (Wimsey’s’ Guide to New York) there are lots of other books I can write: (the author’s agent, actually lives on West 76th street so if she liked the faux gang member I am sure she’d love to see these):


How I Won Best in Show at Westminster by Uno the Beagle (I look a lot smaller inside the show ring)

Dawgs and Bitches: My Life as a (un) Rap Star

Fighter Pilot! Wimsey’s Ten Step Guide to Flying an F-18

Matador! The life of Wimsey, the world’s most famous bullfighter

Wimsey’s guide to buying real estate on that island on “Lost”

My Life at Sea: How I sailed solo across the Atlantic and accidentally discovered The Lost Continent of Atlantis

The Under (the) cover Hound: My life as a famous CIA Agent

Super Model! My life of glory on the Catwalk (and why there are no actual cats)

Wimsey’s Guide to health and wealth: Grow rich and thin while sitting on the couch eating Cheetos

How to build a real estate empire with no money down and a bag of poop

Wimsey’s Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Fila Brasiliera


And of course all those Fresh-Step and Trail Mix commercials with the bloodhound—they’re all me! Isn’t it amazing how Elizabeth suddenly managed to train me to do all those things when I won’t even stand still in the show ring!

But I digress. I was speaking of Sunday in the Park with Wimsey. Well in addition to packs of nice New Yorkers we also met lots of folks from all parts of the globe which thrills Elizabeth as she always enjoys amazing them with her linguistic prowess—she knows how to say “bloodhound” in French, German, Hungarian (don’t ask), Italian and Spanish (she’s still working on Russian and Hebrew, but is not sure whether they have bloodhounds in those countries). And the looks on people’s faces are priceless—an American speaking a foreign language! It’s like the cat suddenly spouting Chaucer. (A few years ago a French couple was mugged in New York and found a French speaking policeman—it made headlines in Paris!). And then of course people assume she can actually speak all those languages as most people who know the word for bloodhound generally also know other words as well (although I can’t think why as bloodhound is clearly the most important word---

I have a bloodhound,
You have a bloodhound
He has a bloodhound
She has a bloodhound
They have a bloodhound
We have a bloodhound
Here is a beautiful bloodhound; his name is Wimsey

Anyway, Elizabeth was not able to induce me to leave the Park until 4:30pm which I finally did amid a hail of protesting squeaks (and my best tractor imitation on the path leading back into the Ramble). But the tragedy of the park departure was somewhat mitigated by the fact that I arrived home in time to stick my nose into the cookies that Maria was baking. (Hound nose imprints make lovely cookie decorations as long as you don’t tell people what they are).

And speaking of decorating, it is time once again for out weekly visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art. Today our visit takes us to the South of France—Arles to be exact where master Dutch (how do you say bloodhound in Dutch, I wonder) post impressionist Vincent Van Gogh painted a picture of his bedroom in his beloved yellow house. Bedroom in Arles (Vincent Van Gogh, 1888, Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam). Van Gogh hoped to express rest and solidity in this simple room but see how much more serene and peaceful the scene looks with a solid, snoozing Hound occupying the bed. And notice how the lovely color of the Hound complements the strong, bright colors of the room! Now it really looks likes one could get an excellent night’s rest while waiting for Gauguin to arrive. Wimsey’s Bedroom Arles.

Well, I am off to rest and to prepare for the rigors of the tub.

Until next time,

Wimsey, The (wannabe) Gangsta Hound

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 56
February 29, 2008

Hello everyone. It’s me, Wimsey wishing you a Happy Leap Day from New York’s Upper West Side. Now I have my own interpretation of Leap day which my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth will experience when they attempt to walk me this evening. And I also wish them a lot of luck asking men to marry them, which, as I understand, is only supposed to be permissible on Leap Day. Well clearly whoever made that rule has never lived amongst the avid Husband Hunters of New York City where bagging the all elusive Husband is an enduring urban sport.--in fact the entire economy of the City would collapse without it as hunting wardrobes must be acquired in profusion (potential husbands being notoriously visual beasts, easily attracted by eye catching lures such as high hemlines and low necklines), watering holes must be visited and feeding stations must be lingered over (the prey being more compliant on a full stomach). And as is the case with most other hunting activities, the tracking and stalking tends to be a lot more fun and interesting than the actual bagging of the prey itself—you will never notice a run on slimy fish or gamey fowl at the supermarket, as the sport involved in tossing these items into a shopping cart is negligible. If husbands were available with such ease the female population of New York would very likely remain immune to husbandly charms.

NYC female shopper #1: I hear there’s a tall, craggy brunette in Aisle 2.

NYC female # 2: I don’t know. Maybe I’ll look at him when he goes on sale.

NYC female shopper #1: Well how about the investment banker next to him—he’s short and bald but with the extra money he brings you could buy lots of craggy brunettes.

NYC shopper #2: I’m not sure if I have the patience to sort through them all. How do we know really even know if they are locally produced—they could have been trucked in from the boroughs or even from the suburbs of Westchester. And how do we know if they are fresh—perhaps they’ve been sitting on the shelf too long.

NYC shopper #1: I think they sell them with 212 area codes and $1,000 per square foot apartments attached. And my mother taught me to check that the flesh is pink and the eyes unglazed. Or maybe that’s fish.

NYC shopper #1: I think we would do better downtown—I read about a new shop in Soho that specializes in artisanal blondes—all organically raised in picturesque hamlets in upstate New York.


All of which is why very few men are likely to be proposed to today here in New York.

Of course human males have nothing to fear from my ladies as human mating rituals do not commonly admit of the presence of a large and smelly Hound. Also my humans’ Hounding wardrobes tend to be less than optimal for attracting the males of the species (or at least those that don’t revel in baggy, lumpy and houndly smelling women). However, I am thinking about starting an online dating service to help my ladies out:

Wimsey’s eHound.com

1. Does your Hound prefer to be:

a. scratched behind the ears
b. scratched on the belly
c. given a full shiatsu massage

2. Does your Hound sleep

a. at the foot of the bed
b. next to you on the pillow
c. draped on you as if you were the pillow

3. At mealtimes does your Hound

a. sit under the table
b. sit next to the table
c. sit on the table

4.When you talk on the phone, does your hound

a. sulk
b. attempt to join the conversation
c. eat the phone

5. Does your Hound prefer his walks to be:

a. 2 hours
b. 4 hours
c. 6 hours

6. Upon which does your Hound prefer to chew:

a. towels
b. underwear
c. shoes
d. whatever is the most expensive

7. When not working to pay for your Hound’s upkeep do you like to:

a. read fine literature with your Hound’s head in your lap
b. engage in vigorous sporting activities with your Hound
c. prepare gourmet candlelit meals for your Hound

8. When accompanying you on a date does your Hound

a. fling drool on your date
b. smear mud on his clothes
c. monopolize the conversation
e. all of the above


Anyway, I am sure that a better use of Leap Day is to spend hours in the park with a leaping Hound. And I got to do plenty of leaping last Sunday during our four hour perambulation through a snowy Central Park (See Wimsey’s Winter Montage below). The snow is alas gone, but more may be in store for us tonight so I am keeping my jumbo sized paws crossed for this happy occurrence. Perhaps another four hour walk (and my humans wonder why they don’t have a life) will be in the offing on Sunday where crowds will gather to watch me disport myself in the snow and to take bets on how many minutes Elizabeth can remain on her feet.

Wimsey’s Winter Montage

Now during these lengthy walks people admire ME, talk about ME, take pictures of ME, pet ME. People enquire deeply into my origins, my mode of life, my preferences in all things, my grooming, my food, my apartment, my activities and anything and everything to do with ME. Maria and Elizabeth never even get asked their names; they are simply Wimsey’s humans and the only thing of interest to anyone about them is ME. And the ladies wonder why I am the way I am (“Wimsey is demanding a publicist and he is refusing to talk to people unless I bribe him with liver”).

Well the other exciting news this week is that I am to be shown again on March 9th which means that not only will I have to undergo a refresher course in trotting (yes, the dreaded trotting poles are about to make a re-appearance in Riverside Park) but There Will be Liver! (a much better title for an Academy Award Winning movie I think, and given the snore inducing nature of this year’s Oscars it probably would have made a much more entertaining movie.) The joys of liver cannot be overstated.

Wimsey’s Book of Love Poems

“Shall I Compare Thee to a Slab of Juicy Liver?”
“How Do I Love Liver. Let me Count the Ways”
“My Love is Like a Red Red Piece of Liver”
“She Walks in Beauty Like a Fabulous Piece of Liver”
“The Passionate Shepherd to His Liver”
“Ode to a Grecian Liver”

Anyway, before I pace off to celebrate Leap Day, it is time for our weekly visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art. Today we have a painting by the great Spanish painter Francisco Goya, who is considered one of the fathers of

modern art The Mourning Portrait of the Duchess of Alba, (Francisco Goya,1797, Hispanic Society, New York). Now this work was painted just after the Duchess lost her husband, which however unfortunate for the Duke was a boon for the Duchess and the artist who were something of an item. And although the Duchess was considered the most beautiful Spanish woman of her time, I think her beauty can be enhanced substantially by the presence of a magnificent Hound draped consolingly about her neck. The Duchess of Wimsey.

Well I am now off to play with my Mastodon—one of the many gifts bestowed upon me for my impeccable Westminster behavior.

Until next time,

Winter Wimsey

Wimsey's Blog: Diary of a Manhattan Bloodhound

Entry # 55
February 22, 2008

Hello Everyone. Wimsey here reporting from Manhattan’s Winter Wonderland. It’s snowing here finally and my human Maria and her friend Elizabeth are busy checking out the nearest emergency rooms! At long last I will get to pit the prowess of the Wimsey tru-Grip Paws (all natural leather) against the vaunted Salomon Snow Clogs (supposedly guaranteed to provide that extra traction one needs when being towed through slippery snow by a large excited Hound) that have been sitting accusingly in Elizabeth’s closet since December. Personally, I bet on my Hound paws which provide the most excellent traction in all weathers—they enable me to pace gracefully across the slickest of ice (not even ice will make me trot) with nary a slip, much to the amazement of my humans (‘Maybe Wimsey’s paws secrete that sticky stuff that spiders use?” and “Do you think he can climb up the sides of buildings?”). It’s just one of the many super powers with which nature has endowed the Hound as a mark of our clear superiority.

The Adventures of Wimsey The SuperHound

NY Citizen 1: Look someone is robbing a bodega!

NY Citizen 2: It’s Wimsey The SuperHound to the rescue—he has popped out of nowhere and swung his body right into the path of the fleeing thug, sending him flying!

NY Citizen 1: Yes, it’s a maneuver he practices quite a bit I understand.

NY Citizen 2; Look someone is trying to steal a car.

NY Citizen 1: But SuperHound Wimsey is using his “car alarm” voice! The man is holding his ears and crowds have gathered from miles around to see what has made this infernal racket!

NY Citizen2: And look that man is lifting a wallet out of someone’s pocket!

NY Citizen 1: But he can’t hang on to it! Wimsey has flung a coating of super-drool all over it making it too slimey to hold!

NY Citizen 2: I don’t know what this city would do without SuperHound! “Is it a pony? Is it a moose? No it’s Wimsey SuperHound! Here to uphold Truth Justice and the New York City Way. ”

And speaking of moose, I am starting to take real exception to having my humans describe some of my poop as “moose poop.” Now few things in life are more certain than that neither of my ladies has ever seen a moose, let alone its poop. I produce fine, elegant bloodhound poop and I bitterly resent its being characterized as clunky moose poop. If my poop must be compared to that of another animal why can’t I produce gazelle poop or jaguar poop or even giraffe poop? My humans are constantly obsessing about my poop—the occasion of its production is one of great joy and celebration (“Isn’t it wonderful, Wimsey is pooping! Hurray!”) and when they are done applying the Moh’s scale of hardness to it they then debate its shape, weight and relative merits (“Yesterday’s poop had a slightly more pleasing cylindrical shape, although the color of this one is quite fine” and “It’s the greenie he consumed yesterday I expect—it always imparts that characteristic emerald-like shimmer.”). I am expecting a jeweler’s loupe to pop out at any moment. (Needless to say I am not afforded reciprocal privileges at the toilet which I think is grossly unfair). I do really think the ladies might take up a different hobby, it would certainly make them more datable—I cannot see that a passion for poop enhances their romantic appeal and it might certainly look a bit odd on match.com

Of course, an interest in poop might be a distinct asset in Wimsey’s online Hound Dating Service


Hound Dating Profile:

Is your idea of a good time:

A romantic evening by the fire shredding the couch cushions
A romp through the garden digging up plants
Exploring the hidden depths of the laundry basket
Dining a deux on unattended garbage

Would you describe yourself as :

Adventurous: always willing to steal a new food item
Sporty: enjoy long hours outdoors dislocating human arms
Intellectual: think deeply about the best places to deposit poop given prevailing wind conditions
Romantic: Enjoy exchanging drool

Your favorite activities include:

Decorating
Fine dining
Gardening
Doing the laundry
Cleaning the Cat Box


Anyway now that Westminster is over, I get to go back to being a regular dog, which in my case still means leading the life of a celebrity--- although being shown at Westminster and being interviewed by the New York Daily News and the New York Post did add even more to my celebrity aura. It was all “Ick! Get that big stinky dog away from me! What! He was at Westminster and was written up in the papers! You mean he’s famous! Why he’s beautiful! Can I pet him?” Even if you are a dog, humans want to be associated with you if you are famous: (“Yes I’ve known Wimsey since he was a pup; we are very good friends; I am sure it was an oversight that he didn’t mention me to the newspapers.”).

And of course even people who don’t know me take one look at me and know that I am somebody—kind of like when a six foot tall 100lb woman walks into a New York City restaurant—I am too beautiful and too rare to be just another obscure upper west side canine. And all of this has tangible perks—the other day on my morning tow through Central Park Maria and I ran into a couple of New York’s Finest who invited me to inspect their SUV (I am as passionate about cars as the ladies are about poop) and then proceeded to feed me their scrambled egg and cheese breakfast sandwiches (an excellent combination that; I intend to put it on the “Let’s Bulk Up Wimsey” menu de hound). It is obvious that New York City policemen are called The Finest because they have the finest taste in Hounds (their food and SUV were pretty good too). I wonder if they would consider judging dog shows:

Police Judge: Best in Show is the bloodhound.
Show Steward: But we haven’t even judged breed yet!

And the groups would be different—none of this sporting group or toy group stuff: There would be things like The Tracking Perps Group, The Tough Looking Dog Group, The finding illegally parked cars group, and of course The Wimsey Group.

Personally I do my bit for New York City security by inspecting all Zabar’s, Citarella and Fairway food bags. You never know what could be hidden in them—I sometimes even need to take a little nibble to verify the bags bona fides. But it is all part of the Wimsey Service—I am increasingly admired as much for my less than perfect behavior as for my astonishing good looks. Let’s face it, humans admire naughty hounds. Would anyone have read Marley and Me if it were about a pleasant well regulated Labrador? I don’t think so. And where would my nemesis Cesar Millan be without misbehaving pooches? Inside every human there is a secret, insubordinate hound who lives vicariously through us-- I mean what human would not relish lifting a leg on an annoying boss or baying in the ear of a boring colleague. They can’t. We can. So bad boy Hounds rule!

As an example, while taking one of my endless Sunday walks in the park, Elizabeth and I ran into a lovely lady who had had a bloodhound thirty years ago in Texas. Now this lady also showed standard poodles but even thirty years later her heart belonged to her Hound, Nick Carter. And even after all this time she chuckles as she relates how her husband had to repaint the drool spattered walls monthly and how during tracking and trailing class Nick declined to follow the scent laid down on the course and just tracked what he wanted to— once even into a field with a bull (how he remained unscathed she has no idea, but hounds are endlessly resourceful when it comes to self preservation). So did she tell me about all the lovely nice obedient and clean dogs she had had. No. She told me about her insubordinate, drooly, stinky (do we come any other way) bloodhound. And she was just full of admiration for Elizabeth’s courage (and foolishness) in taking me into a show ring.

And speaking of the show ring, now that I am not to be shown again until next month I delight in marching around Central Park setting myself up of my own volition in a series of majestic stacked positions that make my humans crazy (“Why won’t Wimsey do that in the show ring!”). Also during our last walk we visited the Chess and Checkers house in Central Park which made me think about what an excellent chess player a wily and strategically deep thinking Hound like myself would be:

Chess commentator 1: We are here today to see Grandmaster Wimsey take on former world chess champion Gary Kasparov.

Chess commentator 2: I thought Grandmaster Wimsey was a rap star.

Chess commentator 1: No, he’s more like an opera star, but today he’s playing chess.

Chess commentator 2: Wimsey is opening with Hound to Hound 4.

Chess commentator 1: Is Kasparov going to respond with the Ruy Lopez?

Chess commentator 2: I don’t think so. Wimsey ate his King’s pawn.

Chess commentator 1: Perhaps Kasparov will try the Sicilian Defense then?

Chess commentator 2: Unlikely. Wimsey also ate his bishop’s pawn.

Chess commentator 1: Kasparov seems unable to move.

Chess commentator; 2: Yes he seems quite puzzled.

Chess commentator 1: No, I mean he is unable to move—Wimsey has stuck his pieces to the board with drool.

Chess commentator 2: Another well deserved victory for the Great Hound. Is that a bay of triumph I hear?

Chess commentator 1: Yes. Wimsey has captured Kasparov’s king. He’s eating it.

Anyway, it just goes to show that I am not just a beautiful face. And speaking of beautiful faces, today’s visit to the Wimsey Institute of Houndish Art involves one of antiquities most dramatic beauty contests—it was like Westminster for goddesses: The Judgment of Paris (Peter Paul Rubens, 1597, National Gallery, London). Now Best in Show was down to three of Mount Olympus’ most beautiful goddesses: Athena (aka. Ch. Minerva’s Goddess of Wisdom) Hera (aka Ch. Juno’s Wife of Zeus) and Aphrodite (aka Ch. Venus’ Goddess of Love). The painting depicts Best in Show judge Paris awarding the blue ribbon (a golden apple in this case) to Aphrodite. But unfortunately the goddesses had made attempts to bribe the judge—Athena offered wisdom (yawn), Hera offered to make Paris a great king (a pretty good gig) and Aphrodite offered Paris the love of the world’s most beautiful woman (who unfortunately was someone else’s wife). I bet you can’t guess which one he chose (even in ancient times men’s brains were in their togas). It never seemed to have occurred to the chap that if he were a powerful king, the love of beautiful women would be sure to follow (women’s hearts being often found in their Fendi handbags). But I digress. Now the best in show line up was woefully incomplete without the addition of a magnificent Hound who clearly is about to snatch the prize away from Aphrodite, altruistically preventing the start of the Trojan War and sparing generations of students (whose only interest in Homer is surnamed Simpson) the agony of struggling through The Iliad (“if you loved The Odyssey…. Yes there’s more!!!”) The Judgment of Wimsey.

OK, time at last for a romp in the snow and the defeat of The Snow Clogs (coming to an emergency room nearest you).

Until next time,

Wimsey, a regular Manhattan dog who people take pictures of, newspapers write about and policemen feed their breakfasts to.