I have a google alert for Basset Hounds. Yeah. Don't judge. So basically I get an email once or twice a week showing "Top Basset Hound News." This runs along instep with the fact that I once dated a "Professional, World Class Bagpiper." I have named this life column heading "Things you did not know actually hit those levels of popularity with more than 5 people."
So in the case of the Top Basset Hound News aggregation, I open the email trepidatiously. Scared I will find a headline like "Rosie, a 6 year old Basset, died Tuesday in a freak heavy equipment accident" but looking in earnest for stories that go like "Bueford, a one year old Basset Hound, commandeered his owners Ford F10 out of the barn after the fire started Tuesday night, rescuing 47 chickens and 2 pigs, before returning to his nap."
I kind of exist for those type of stories.
I rescued Hambone from the Basset Rescue of the Old Dominion, or BROOD, as they call themselves. They are a group of mainly women who dedicate all of their time and about 85% of their available resources to the care and well being of animals that will never be able to repay them with any more than their affection. These people are clearly better people than I am and more than once, I have thought that if I won the lottery I would set each one of them up like one of George Clooney's mistresses. Just here in the US. Not Lake Cuomo, Italy. Bassets sink like stones and can not put on their own life preservers. So that's out. Of the dream sequence thing, ya know.
Happily, in this world there are people like the BROOD people that do this kind of work for a number of specific AKC breeds. Hysterically, most will align with their supported breed in either character or looks. The BROOD ladies, bless them each and every one, really don't give a shit about you at all. They are not interested in your fancy life or what your children are up to, or what your other dog [a golden retriever] is like. They are efficient by nature. You are a hindrance. If you want someone to hold your hand and compliment your outfit while acting like your girlfriend and spending all day debating the possibilities of this dog or that - you are shopping for the wrong breed. Go find the cocker spaniel rescue or the "doodle" people.
People show up to rescue Basset Hounds like they arrive at jail to pick up a relative that was thrown in the drunk tank overnight.
You fill out the forms saying you will take responsibility.
You pay to spring them.
You exchange resigned, sarcastic looks with your newly re-acquainted family member.
They are only mildly embarrassed about the situation.
You are pretty sure they will take a leak in the parking lot before you leave. Or maybe in the car on the way home. And then you arrive back at your life hours later realizing you have just opted into having permanent living arrangements with a personality mixed between Napoleon and Elton John, for which you will be footing the bill to eternity.
And I never looked back. I love that farty little hate machine with his inebriated walk and sudden onset's of narcolepsy.
So to get to the damn point (already). I love my dog (newsflash!) and there was a link in the recent google alert list (that I expected to HATE) from some Long Island Basset get-together that happened recently. The "Howlabaloo" it was called. Normally these things are disgustingly cute and unintentionally make asses out of the breed and all owners involved. But this one was different. The reporters were kind of funny in a quirky, snarky way. They were actually entertaining. And they weren't total jerks to the people who showed up to the festival.
It's an outfit called The Vulture, somehow related to NYMAG.com.
Here is the article. And below is their "on-the-scene" report.