Four calling birds, three french hens, two competing dogs, and a crazy fam'ly in a Montreal suburb

So, this is Christmas, and my dogs have finally gotten the chance to meet. It was love at first sight: Bruno, who usually has to be dragged outside to play in the snow and begged to stay there when my mother is washing the floor (for example) willingly followed Eska into the backyard anytime she asked to go out. As soon as food entered the picture, however, the tune changed.

So my father and I have decided that at some point in her past, Eska had to fight for her food, likely because it either kept being taken away from her or was never given to her. When she discovered the dog treats under the tree with the rest of our gifts, she decided it would be her job to guard them with her life. When Bruno *threatened* them with his presence (or, the presence of his nose), she snapped - twice - biting him on the neck.

We were worried that they would never speak again. They didn't, for a few days. But a few walks together and a few more sessions of playing in the snow under my direct supervision seem to have brought them right back to their initial impression of each other: today, Eska walked gingerly over to Bruno lying on the blanket she at least in part appropriated for her stay here, and gave him doggie kisses on his big floppy ears.

She said it inna ear of an unca Bruni.

They love each other again.

I have snapped a few photos of their interaction, as well as a video - look forward to more before the return to Baltimore!

First snowfall

This morning, my friend Nathalie text-messaged me to tell me the first snowstorm had officially hit home. I smiled, which was the very reaction I'd had just days earlier when that (not so sticky) snowy stuff fell over Baltimore. I took Eska to the farmer's market that Saturday, and we sampled bison meat. Today, under sunny Maryland skies, she came with me to Mrs. Hopkins' house, quiet as quiet can be.

So here, some poetry, inspired by all three:

The (sudden) flurries
- slick -
gave rise to (weathered) panic,
as the feathers flaked and fell.

But only in the North,
in Mary's city there,
where feathers hang but loosely
on the rarefied air.

In southern times,
in southern climes,
in Mary's Mason land,
the showers span for hours
(white)
across a phantom line

and there compel,
in moments
- quick! -,
a rush to the out-doors
where bison meat,
thick, brown, and sweet,
makes happy picnic fare
for masked scavengers,
black and white,
with feathers in their hair.

TVB

(Italian "SMS" for "ti voglio bene," or, "I love you.")

Today, Troy, Boccaccio and I had another very productive study date. It took the better part of 4.5 hours - a significant chunk of my Sunday - but it was delightful, necessary, and worthwhile.

Leaving Troy's house, and pulling on my coat, I was overcome by the sudden impulse to reach into my pocket for my cell phone (which I NEVER do)

TO CALL ESKA to tell her I was on my way home.

First, I remembered that Eska didn't have a cell phone. Next, I remembered that she didn't really talk the way humans talk, most likely because (I only then remembered) SHE'S A DOG.

I blame 14th-century Italy (and maybe a tiny little bit of greenery) for my short-circuitry.

Explosions in the Sky, etc.

Last night, I took Eskarina, my love, to the lighting of the Washington Monument in Mount Vernon with Auntie Jen and a friend. The actual lighting ceremony left her indifferent. She did NOT do so well, however, with the fireworks that immediately followed.

I knew she probably wouldn't really relish the noise (which is why I gave her a "Quiet Moments" chamomille pill to preemptively soothe her nerves), but I had assumed that the fireworks would be set off by the harbour, at a safe distance, and providing ample space for the sound of the sparks to be absorbed into the stratosphere? (Where are my geographers when I need them?) Instead, they were popped right there, on location.

It was the look of sheer and absolute terror in her eyes more than her howling that actually broke my heart into a million pieces. She was completely fine once we were removed from the scene (which, of course, we left as soon as it was clear that she would not be able to deal with her surroundings), and didn't even think to retaliate against me last night (or this morning). I still feel bad, though.

She is SUCH a good baby, my Eskarina, my love. I will never put her through that again. On the flip side, potential shootings on the streets of Baltimore might not now come as a huge shock to her senses.

Eska is a thug.

Sweet Nothings, etc.

Thursday was Thanksgiving, and Eska and I hosted pot-luck dinner at 215. Only, Eska didn't really host at all - by popular (repeated) request, I sequestered Eskarina in my bedroom for most of the night, and she responded as I imagined she would: poorly. The real issue was not dealing with her whining throughout dinner. It was cleaning up the shit she left in my room (she never shits in the house unless she is extremely nervous), putting away the piles of clothes she pulled out of my drawers in a fit of rage (unprecedented behaviour), repeatedly soaking, washing, and leaving to dry the puddle of urine she deliberately left on my mattress (after dealing with the sheets and the covers on my bed).

In other words, we were not very happy with each other on Friday, which is when I resolved never to host again unless my expected company is absolutely fine with the presence of my dog and with the fact that, being a dog and NOT a human, she is likely to get excited and a little rowdy at the sight of a week's worth of food prepared for six (or more) less than familiar faces - in HER personal space.

Saturday, however, we made peace.

I have been trying to teach Eska how to say "I love you" for quite some time. Every day, I ask her how she feels about me, in a completely narcissistic move motivated by nothing if not a human desire for love and validation by way of an ego-boost. This is how our conversation goes:

me: Eskarina, what you think? What you are even thinking?
Eska: (silence)
me: Eskarina, my love, how you feel about me?
Eska: (silence)
me: Eskarina! COME ON! Do you love me, my girl? Say it inna ear, say ... say it inna ear ... (I put her face up to my ear).
Eska: (breathes uncomfortably)

Yesterday, however, as soon as I asked her how she felt about me and held her face up to my ear, she responded with a hearty lick from lobe to tip.

I love you, too, my girl.

Today, because it is 19 degrees out, and because this is the last Sunday we will be able to spend together before I have to bury my face in papers or take care of Christmas shopping and the like, I took Eska to Druid Hill Park (which is kind of like a flatter version of Mount Royal, or a bigger version of Parc Lafontaine, for you Montrealers). Needless to say, I got lost, as I knew I would, and though she gave me a run for my money when I mistakenly let her semi-free in a field of felled trees (she got tangled up in her retractable leash and gave me hell before letting me free her), when, in a moment of frustration and panic, I asked her to find me the way home, she did. She actually sniffed her way back to our very entry point entirely without guidance.

I knew having a husky would come in handy some day.

So, Eskarina and I are back on track, it seems. Still, I can't wait to let her loose in my parents' REAL backyard. I might actually get to rest over the Christmas break.

Du hast

Eska is a multi-lingual dog, it's true.

Consider: an actual conversation she and I had earlier today in response to an omelet sandwich I had just made:

me: Aia! Maronna sant', c'est chaud en ostie! You understand what it means? C'est pas mal bon, però ...
Eska: feed me.

Yesteday, however, she demonstrated her love (of)? hatred (for)? fascination (with)? the German language. I had been watching Il divo, a movie she took a distinct disliking to almost immediately, retreating to her hiding place under my desk within the first five minutes of the opening scene. The whole movie is in Italian (obviously), but its musical score comes in a host of linguistic varieties - some Italian, some French, some English.

Eska JUMPED at the German song accompanying the closing credits. She actually jumped. Like, she ran into the living room, walked right up to the TV and started sniffing the speakers to try to figure out what was going on. She didn't stop until the song ended.

I guess Rammstein is off the playlist.

When You're Smiling

The whole world smiles with you.

Disciplinary Action

I think I've found it.

Today, Eska may have chewed her way through the garbage and hopped her way into the sink for the very last time (or almost). To punish her crimes, I tied her (by her leash) to the closet door in the unlit rear section of my apartment with no treats, no toys, no contact, no attention.

She hated it - whined for thirty minutes. When she had been quiet for ten, I let her go and gave her a stern talking-to. Now, she is on my bed in fully repentant mode.

We shall see how long this good behaviour lasts. I am fully prepared to punish again, should the need to arise.

Not a girl, not yet a woman

Ever since we hosted our GRLL friend Andreea (who was in town from France for an interview) last week, Eska has decided that she really wants to be a *real* girl. It's not enough to be a "good" girl, or even "my" girl - she needs to be a human girl, is the thing.

Saturday, I left the (front snap, nude, padded, pushup, super-cleavage) bra I was going to wear to the Brewer's Art out on my bed with the rest of my intended outfit while I showered. It's been a while since I've had to crate Eska while I washed; she seems to have gotten that the shower doesn't bite and has never kidnapped me. When I got back, she'd torn the entire back of the bra to shreds, and begun to make her way through the padding of the right cup.

Fine. It probably smelled like me.

Although I usually put my shoes away as soon as I take them off, sometimes I leave a pair or two lying around. Eska, disinterested, never gets to them. Yesterday, I left my cute pink flats, recently (five months ago) rescued from the depths of my sister's closet where they had long since been lost, out, not for the first time, it might be worth adding. Within half an hour, Eska had gotten (only) to the left half of the pair, now officially defunct.

Fine. It probably smelled like me, too.

Today, in a moment of deliberate rebellion and general irritation at my ignoring her, she pierced, swallowed the contents of, and chewed up the plastic of a tube of lip gloss.

Now you're just getting fancy, girl.

I joked that I would put lipstick on her for my housewarming party; she decided to take things into her own hands (or, more appropriately, mouth) when I didn't deliver.

Next thing I know, she'll be swallowing my bobby pins and trying to wear my earrings.

This little [doggie] went to market

Minutes ago, I took Eska to the Waverly farmer's market.

I have been anticipating this day since the moment I got her, and it wasn't until I woke up this morning, like clockwork, at 7.30am (even after a night of karaoke and the necessary accompanying heavy drinking that went until 2am), saw Eska curled up directly beside me on my bed, and felt her spontaneous kiss on my hand that I thought, "okay. She's ready, now."

Of course, I armed myself with a triple dose of patience before we set out on what would be a tripartite mission (to walk her, get groceries, and drop off my old key at Calvert), because bringing a still very excitable - and gourmande - dog to a place the main features of which are people and food could turn out to be a quite disastrous event, indeed. It did not.

Eska was calm as Man Before Knowledge with EVERYONE at the market, from local clients to local farmers, and only attemped to jump up on one of the stands once - accordingly, I bought the brussel sprouts she managed slightly to lick. She was patient, indulgent, and obedient as I picked up some green beans, apples, and cider, and didn't once pull or tug at her leash on the way home, either - behaviour that earned her twice her usual share of cooooooooookies.

Oh, my Skarri, my love ... you are SUCH a good baby!

Today, a few notable things happened.

Not chronologically:

I discovered that exciting myself, no matter how subtly, means, by default, exciting Eska. I received word from SubLit magazine today that my piece, "New Thrash," will be published in their upcoming December issue. The first thing I thought to do upon reception of such news was to jump up and down in my chair and to mute my (implied) screams while fanning myself in joy and disbelief. I tried to be quiet, because I had just crated Eska for the day, but she caught on anyway, and rejoiced with me -- by jumping up and down in her crate, tugging at her blankets and sheets, and howling for attention.

The next thing I thought to do was to tell my unofficial editor, faithful reader, and forever friend, Nina, who just happened to be on gchat at the time.

Perhaps of greater relevance to this blog, Eska and I met a man on our morning walk today who, Eska was quite sure, was escaped from an insane asylum. Tall. Husky. Bald, wearing a baseball cap (and sweat pants, and a windbreaker, to complete the set). Middle age, perhaps later. We heard him yelling at we weren't sure what from a few blocks away, and Eska remained fascinated for blocks after we passed him by. As we approached him (on the opposite side of the street) on Chestnut and 35th, both his laments and the reason for their expression became clearer: they were addressed to his lighter, which was seemingly failing to light his cigarette.

"Work! WORK, godDAMNit! WORK!"

and

"That's enough! That's ENOUGH, bitch!"

plus

"You better fucking WORK, you little asshole! That's eNOUGH!!!!!"

Eska looked on in actual wonder, and because she is easily frightened, jumped in the air a little when she quite unexpectedly heard him bellow out again, a few blocks up, rounding the corner of 38th.

I hope we meet him again. Il nous en faut de toutes les couleurs.

New trick pony

Eska has officially made herself at home here at W29th. Every day, she watches me cook, eat, give her some of my scraps (at the very end of the meal), then place my dishes in the sink, to wash them either before bed (when I have used all the dishes I am going to use in a day) or first thing in the morning.

Accordingly, she has taken to sticking her nose in the fridge, sitting at my feet while I stand over the stove in the hopes of comandeering fallen morsels, and, MOST offensively, leaping up onto the counter and into the sink to lick at my unwashed plates.

Terror. She is a terror of a dog. I am trying to figure out a good way to punish her. Taps on the nose don't work. Neither does "Bad Eska." Today, I have tried crating her each time she does it, which I fear might become counterintuitive, as she still needs to view her crate as "home" and a welcoming, friendly place to be for the times I leave her there during my absence.

Input?

My natural tendency is to be coaxing by flattery: I have added "Martha, my dear" to the Eska playlist and have been singing it on our walks (replacing "Martha" with "Eska," of course) every day since this behaviour began. (Other additions include "Detroit 67," "Island in the Sun," "Hard Road," and "Wrong Way.")

Nothing.

What's the story, Wishbone?

Today, I met the protagonist of my next short story.

It is very well, indeed, that I should meet him today, since I had been contemplating the recent drought in my creative writing not but two days ago. I don't really have the time to write a short story, but now that I've met its central character, I have no choice about the matter.

I thought I might kill two birds with one stone by dropping off the video I rented last week from Video Americain (and watched last night, with some friends) while I took Eska for a walk. Of course I knew I would not be allowed to place it in the drop box as long as the store was open, which is why I had hoped I might chance upon someone to return it for me, since I assumed no admittance to the establishment would be granted in canine company.

So as Eska and I approached the video store (which was difficult enough to access, since they are redoing the sidewalks on St. Paul ONLY, conveniently, between 31st and 32nd) and saw no one in the vicinity who might help, I contemplated my options. I could either put the movie in the drop box and just earn the scorn of the video store clerk ... who is extremely cute, and actually remembers my video inquiries from one week to the next ... no dice. OR, I could risk walking into the store WITH Eska and hope for said video store clerk's patience, indulgence, and good humour. He might even be charmed by my pet! Yes, let's do it that way, I thought.

I prepared to descend the four steps leading to the entrance, donning my most alluring smile, when suddenly, a well-dressed man in his early to mid 40s exited the store and - as is customary and now expected - was drawn to the quadruped excitedly leaping in his direction.

This might do. The store clerk won't be charmed, but he won't hate me for dragging wet cement stains into his place of work, either.

"Could you do me a favour?" I asked the sharp stranger, in a move completely out of character, handing him my VCR return.

He just looked at me ....

"Oh, because of the dog ..."
"I can't go in with the dog, you see ..." we said simultaneously.
"Sure. But it's ONLY because that's SUCH a cute dog," he said.

Indeed.

Feminine wiles work wonders, even when they are not mine.

Precisely thirty seconds after this exchange, a storm rolled in that lasted only long enough for the (ultimately, soaked) stranger to get to his car.

Bad karma?

Who cares? I'll write him a glorious ending.

Cleaning up

In preparation for next week's fall formal/ housewarming party, I decided, tonight, to give Eska a bath. Well, in all honesty, I decided to give Eska a bath because she had my new property manager Kelvin's paint in her tail, and that would never do.

I think she kind of hated me for it: I'd already, earlier, taken her in to Abigail's Pet Spa on W 41st to have her nails trimmed. I'm pretty sure the last thing she expected when she woke up this morning was a day of grooming.

She was noisy with the spa staff, but they managed to get the job done relatively quickly.

I was unprepared for how completely terrified she is of the bathtub.

Ter.ri.fied. Scared shitless, poor baby.

She was not bad with me. Her shampoo bottle warned me to be prepared for the worst. "When wet and slippery, your pet is faster and smarter than you," it reads. I thought for sure she'd make a mad bee-line for the door. I can't say she didn't try, but she never put up much of a fight when I held her back. She howled during most of the process, and shivered (out of fear - the water was lukewarm, as recommended) throughout, but essentially, she was a good baby.

You're such a good baby, Skarri. I am sooooooooooooooo proud of my lil girl!

So it was another day of firsts for Eskarina and I. Perhaps now that she's endured worse, she won't wriggle so much when I brush her.

Busted

me, most notably.

Eska did well yesterday. She was quiet on our morning walk, she was quiet when I left her to go to Mrs. Hopkins' house, she was equally complacent when I again left her to go Halloween shopping with Auntie Jen and Auntie Shana, and she was calm (relatively) at her release when I got home. She fought the urge - helped by much of our negative prompting - to get into the remains of our pumpkins as we carved them, and she didn't even cry when Aunties left.

She stood by the door before they even had their coats on in a gest that usually means "I need to go (#2) ... take me out." She never wears her choke-collar for these trips, because they are usually brief, direct, and devoid of any distraction.

Eska did NOT, in fact, need to go. What she *did* feel the need to do is sniff out a rat in our alley, drag me around the block chasing it at top speed, and resist my attempts at halting to such an extent that I fell knees and palms first into a (small) pile of gravel. My ONLY decent pair of jeans are now no longer; more importantly, my knee, which I thought was only scratched, is veritably busted: it is painful, today, to move it in any direction.

Well, I hope it was worth the excitement, Skarri. Perhaps someday, you will realise that rats, much like squirrels, because they are ubiquitous in Baltimore, are not even worth the chase. Supply well exceeds demand. The novelty is gone, Eska. Move on.

Cut the cord

or lose the leash, whatever.

When my neighbour Roslyn told me about a fantastic trail I could pick up on 33rd and follow under the Keswick bridge out to Pacific, I was enchanted, and had to sniff around, Eska in tow (it goes without saying). I've now done it twice, and was amazed both times at how friendly Hampden-Remington dog owners are compared to Guilford-Roland Park pet parents. I should have figured, but didn't.

Saturday, before my and Brian's full-day vacuum dramas, Eska and I met Murphy Stout, Stella Artois, and their charming owner at 2917 Keswick. We stopped and chatted for a while, Eska taunted by the unattainable appearance of the adorable Pit Bull-Hound and gorgeous Belgian Shepherd (respectively) behind the glass door protecting them - but not us - from the rain. As is customary among dog-crew, I didn't actually get 2917's name. But he told me about every possible green space within the vicinity (including some without it) I could take Eska to, and hoped we might cross paths again, perhaps in an enclosed green space (when construction on the park was finally done) so our dogs could play. We thanked him for his suggestions, then continued on our way.

This morning, Eska stopped at 2917 and tried to crawl behind its welcoming glass door through the one-inch slot between it and the stoop to say hello to her new friends.

One street over, she made another.

Still on Keswick, around 30th or 31st, there is a children's playground surrounded by ample field. I have taken Eska here before, and brought her here again today to throw a ball around, so she'd be pooped and prepared for another half-day in her crate. No sooner had I put her on her retractable leash, than she'd leaped toward something to me still imperceptible.

Oliver, the Bulldog-Shepherd had crept up on us silently, but not unmarkedly: he was running at full speed, and Eska decided to follow.

What ensued was an at times embarrassing, at times funny, but mostly just *active* session of four-way dog-play; as Eska and Oliver rolled around within the confines of Eska's retractable leash, Theresa (Oliver's owner) and I chatted and surveyed our puppies' activity, sometimes joining in to give them more slack.

Delightful.

I was very tempted indeed to let Piccina off her leash, because it seemed like with both Theresa and I there, she could get into precious little trouble. Still, I couldn't bring myself to ignore the nagging voice in my head that kept insisting, "But what if she runs away?"

I trust her plenty. I do. I'm just not sure I trust myself to have the calmness and presence of mind to deal with a fugitive dog, should her flight ever, indeed, come about.

Perhaps it's time to cut the cord?
But what if it's too soon?

Aunt Kitty

Half a block away, up Cresmont, there is a parked Jeep that never moves. It wouldn't be particularly noteworthy if it didn't have a spare tire on the back covered with a black leather casing with a picture of Elvis on it, under which reads the caption "We love you, Aunt Kitty!" I have always wondered about this vehicle. Yesterday, I made a discovery that has put my curiosity to rest.

Because I would be expecting guests at 8pm, and because the sidewalks of Baltimore - poorly lit - are really no place to be after dark (even in the safer areas ... you can't see a damn thing), I decided to preempt my walk with Eska by two hours and took her out at 4, before dinner, rather than at 6, after it. This, I discovered, is when all the fun happens, and this is when I met Aunt Kitty.

A few highlights before we get to her:

- Eska and I discovered a large reservoir along Northway (where Greenway forks off in the direction of Loyola campus)and Millbrook. We might go running here when it is less populated.
- Along Cold Spring Lane, Eska recovered a dead squirrel from a pile of debris, but was just as quickly disgusted by it as I was and put it down even before I had the time to say the (by her) dreaded keyword, "butta."
- We met Eddie the dog, his young mistress, and her (also young) mother sitting on their front porch on Cresmont, just a few doors down from Aunt Kitty. Eddie's mistress was concocting some magic potion to get him to stop barking (out of what I can only imagine was apple juice) and entreated Eska and I to watch her put it together. So we did. Until Baby got restless and started lunging at the eighteen cats seemingly emerging from every hidden corner of the street.

Which brings me to Aunt Kitty.

Just before Eska and I met up with Eddie and his entourage, we bumped into a perfectly pleasant and typically Baltimorean woman. Read: heavy smoker, dowdily dressed, impeccable Bawlmorese. "You're a rullll pretty dog," she told Eska as we walked by. "Thanks," I said, speaking on Baby's behalf. " ... rulllllllll pretty," she continued, as half a dozen cats began to crop up around her.

Eska got excited, and the woman sensed it.

"Oh, you like cats, do you girl? Yeah ... you better get used to 'em ... there's a LOTTA cats on this street ....a LOT of 'em ... they're EVERYWHERE, girl, EVERYWHERE, cats EVERYWHERE, you gotta get used to it ... tell your mommy, tell her ... 'but Mommy, I want one ...' she'll get you one, you just tell her. She'll get you a whole bunch ..."

Elvis Jeep mystery solved. There is no other explanation.

I like Aunt Kitty. She's certainly got character. To be clear, though, Mommy will most certainly not be getting any cats for Baby; besides, the entire contingent of the ASPCA cat shelter seems to have been adopted, already.

So, to recap:
1) Batshit crazy MINISTER OF THE STATE OF MARYLAND, neighbour, Denis
2) Aunt Kitty

Welcome to the neighbourhood.

Furbettina

l'Eschietta.

Today, I played a little game with Eska before leaving. With each item of "outer wear" I put on (which got her attention), I left her a little treat to pick up in the spot I was leaving. I gave her half a cookie in her crate, left the other half in the doorway to my room as I put on my coat, left a rawhide bone under the coffee table in the living room as I drew my boots on, and finally, set down a milkbone in the entrance as I threw on my schoolbag and headed out. Each time, she responded impeccably: she brought her newly found item into her crate, then followed me to retrieve the next. I left the apartment when I heard her settle with her fun objects in her treasure cove.

She's so smart, I thought. Maybe today will be a good day.

Today was not a bad day, to tell the truth: she broke the handle off an espresso cup and turned over a box of paper, but she could have done worse.

Then I looked into the kitchen.

It's true, as a neighbour (and her dog, Milo) told me this morning: this girl is not just a pretty face. Much like she found her way into the trash can earlier this week, today she managed to pry open the cupboard where I keep her cookies and treats. I don't think she ate any, as all the boxes seemed to be as full (or as empty) as I had left them, but that's entirely beside the point.

Good looks, a killer personality, and a brain?

Who is this dog? Me?

Ha.

New digs

Eska survived the move, but barely.

This weekend, I fled from Calvert and relocated just three blocks south and four (major) blocks west to W29th - new home for Eskarina and I. My father and I took care of the heavy lifting. Brian and his sprained ankle navigated our awkward trips with bulky furniture down the Calvert stairs and did light carrying out to the UHaul. My mother babysat the dog.

She had the toughest job, undeniably.

The week's end revealed an Eska just as angsty and irritated as its beginning had promised; by the end of the move, she was no more settled than she had been at its outset. In fact, she howled inordinately whenever my parents left the premises. She seems to be getting a little better now, slowly.

She only took to my father, I'm convinced, not because he's excellent with dogs, but because he fed her eight times the amount she usually eats, lavished her with cookies, bones, and other treats, and fattened her up on table scraps.

He also left me a dog with a severe (two-day) case of diarrhea; I would have almost preferred her to have eaten more hydrocortisone cream.

I am experimenting with free-range existence: yesterday, while left to her devices, she got to - and through - a bag of bagels, leaving me only 2 of the 6 it originally contained. Today, she only managed to sniff out the garbage and miraculously avoided getting her face snapped off by a mousetrap.

Good work, Skarri. Jamais deux sans trois. I am certainly looking forward to tomorrow.

I am going to need a blog about Dunkies

After our (Eska-related) blowout yesterday, I vowed never to speak to Dunkies again. Ever.

She decided *actually*, really, truly, and verifiably to make my life a living hell.

To wit:
Today was another insane day. Apart from having to deal with the move (I have begun moving my kitchen into my new apartment, packing my common area belongings, and gathering boxes to pack my room), I also, lest we forget, am taking care of a difficult dog, teaching, attending classes and lectures, and keeping up with my work. Fine. No one says I deserve a medal for it, but give me a fucking break.

Tonight, my supervisor, as director of JHU's Singleton Center (for interdisciplinary studies), introduced the first speaker of the Singleton series (who gave a brilliant talk on the school of Caravaggio). Out of solidarity, support, and general interest, I attended. I made sure to feed and walk Eska preemptively and only to leave the house when she was comfortably settled in her crate, as per usual. I made sure she had her kong to chew on, plenty of water to wash down the peanut butter, and a safe background lull of television. All was well.

I got home 2.5 hours later to:
a) a howling dog
b) a crate turned upside down (while she was still in it)
c) a kong suspiciously outside her crate (I never let Eska have her kong out of context)
d) a dining room table littered with Dunkies' disorganised stuff
e) the kitchen light on and the door to the mudroom open.

I mean, if you are going to so obviously let the dog out, decide that she's too much to handle (because she hates you, as she should, because you're actually a horrible person), then inhumanely shove her back in her crate without the decency of giving her a snack or of telling me you are harassing my dog, at least try to cover your tracks.

Saturday cannot arrive too soon. I am tempted to sleep on the floor of my new apartment until then, Eska in tow.

My Sunday with Amore cuore

Eska was restless as soon as she woke up from her nap around 3.30pm. I don't know why, but I am going to blame it on Dunkies (because I like blaming everything on Dunkies). I kept her in my room with me most of the day in an effort to avoid having her contaminated by contact with said atrocious roommate, and this was the result: she heard noise in the lower levels, and she didn't like it.

Poor Eskarina. She might not fare any better being sandwiched between two apartments and having to deal with their respective sounds in less than a week's time, but what can I do?

I still love you, 'mmore cù. I really do.

Almost as entertaining, but in a different way, Eska's reaction to "Do you want a cookie-cooooooookie-cookie?" :

Oh, Skarri ... you're just a lil baby-girl.

giove-dì

Eska clearly feels like Zeus on Thursdays. It's only because she's (pseudo)Italian.

Thursdays are when I leave her out of her crate during my shower, because I will be home for most of the day (not having lesson or seminar and only having tutorial with Mrs. Hopkins at 3). The sense of freedom afforded her must also leave her with an equal sense of audacity - it is precisely (and consistently) on Thursdays, during my shower, that she gets into things she's not supposed to.

Yesterday, she chewed a corner off Dunkies' CD case. (I was kind of glad she did).

But I wonder what it is about showers (or about Thursdays) that gets her going ...

Later, in the evening, I brought her with me to Marsha's where she played - nicely! - with three year-old and significantly smaller beagle Thor. I admit: at first, I was a little concerned she might eat him or, more likely, his sister cat, Luna. She held off, but couldn't resist the temptation to chew away at and eventually swallow an entire rawhide bone from his vast collection of them.

I guess she thought that if it was okay for him to lick at her kong (which I brought to distract her while we ate), it would be fine for her to eat his snack.

Smart and vindictive.

On second thought, Eska must be Greek.

Going green?

Recently, Baltimore decided to vamp up its trash collection city by-laws in a conscious and sustained effort to go green.

Congratulations, Baltimore. Brian (the environmental engineer) and I both appreciate your conscientious decision, not to mention the noisy weekly trips you make down our alley every Tuesday morning.

I'm a little confused, though. Did you think that by cutting the number of public waste-baskets there are in the city, you'd reduce either the amount of trash produced by its people, or their tendency to litter?

Seems untenable.

I sometimes, on my walks with puppy, go for miles holding a bag of (by the time I dispose of it no longer) steaming hot poopies before I get the opportunity to toss it. This municipal oversight - that is, the shortage of garbage bins around - might be exclusive to the "highbrow" neighbourhoods I walk through (nothing but the best for my baby girl) and/or might be part of a larger project of aestheticisation/ beauty preservation of said areas. Still, less respectful citizens, I'm sure (in fact, I KNOW from seeing it done, repeatedly) would not be as patient as I: if there is no trash bin in immediate sight, many either toss their garbage to the ground or, in the case of dog feces, never even bother to scoop it up.

I guess there's no law here compelling clean up after dogs in any place other than clearly designated areas (mostly parks). And I suppose it would be silly for me to expect dog-ownership to factor into urban planning. But would it kill you to have a couple more bins available in Guilford or Roland Park? Would residents along Wendover, Underwood, Overhill, Linkwood, or Millbrook really mind all that much?

Do their votes really count so much that you even care?

Eska doesn't seem to mind, except when holding a bag of shit interferes with my dexterity in getting cookies out of my pants-pocket.

ANTM - dog edition

Just a few pictures of the puppy, and a stellar home video - look for more, soon!



Because naturally, my bed is better than hers.


So sleepy ...

... And she always arrives when I'm leaving ...

She sees a squirrel, probably.

To Sherwood Gardens!

Oration à la Valla

To my neighbours here assembled:

Since, undeniably, you are all - or purport to be - Cesar Millan, and since, moreover, I am nothing other than a lowly graduate student barely able, indeed, to manage her own life, let alone to be held accountable for that of another breathing creature, I must, with due reverence and respect respond now to your concerns about the means by which I parent my one and only dog, expressing nothing, as, I hope, will be clear, if not absolute appreciation for your fears and vexations listed here below. Let me be brief in stating their essence and more laborious in dealing with their cause since therein, I am told, is a resolution to be found.

Of your first concern that my dog is "unhappy": perhaps in your infinitely acute observation, you have found that my dog, more often when left in bad company than when left alone, whines, whimpers, and at times indeed howls, to signal what you might rightfully identify a general state of unrest. Your suggestion - silent, lest you offend me with your unsolicited advice - that such a condition be curbed, cured, and ammended with love, affection, freedom, adequate feeding, and play, I take with not a little sincere thanks since I, having in the place of a beating heart an unfeeling stone, and having rather than a brain, a malfunctioning muscle composed only of air and water, would never have thought to bestow upon my pet any of your recommended attentions. From the bottom of my unfeeling stone, then, may I convey my most genuine gratitude for this unfailingly perfect proposition.

Of your next concern that my dog is "ill-behaved": you will say, and I will readily admit, that at the heart of good behaviour is not only proper, but indeed sufficient - and that is not to say exaggerated - discipline. You will tell me that to make allowances is to show weakness, to permit frivolities is to sabotage and undermine any real attempts at asserting dominance, to be flimsy - that is, not rigid - is to relinquish control, and you will add that every slight bit of bad behaviour is to be firmly and consistently punished, and that only good behaviour is to be rewarded with gifts, tangible, palatable, or otherwise. Again, I give you thanks, for again, I hold with only the utmost admiration your very astute reasonings which, since it would be far beneath anyone of your excellence to state banalities, must be of the least trifling quality, and therefore not the smallest bit obvious to common layfolk like myself.

Since, furthermore, it would be incommensurate with your constitution to by the very same token present conflicting concerns (or at the very least, inconsistent methods to quell them), I must emphasise again my own criminal failings and reprehensible shortcomings as a dog-owner in their ever arising. And since, in your unending wisdom, you would never fail properly to examine all sides and facets of any given situation before jumping to conclusions, I must also now resign myself to view it nothing if not unwise, uncautious, inscrupulous, and self-indulgently excusing to consider as reasons for my dog's unhappiness her still young age, her particularly high-strung breed, or her clinical behaviour dilemmas, real or imagined: her ostensible separation anxiety and her reasonably assumed autism.

Finally, to those overly magnanimous few who insist on to any small degree acknowledging my difficulty and benevolence in taking up the responsibilty and commitment of caring for a dog once neglected, abused, and abandoned and now veritably scarred for life, I say both that your excessive generosity is embarrassing, and that it might best be reserved for the praise of those pet owners who leave their dogs to bark ceaselessly on their front lawns or to roll unabashedly in heaping piles of dung in the dog park, or, perhaps better, of those fantastical and ephemeral few whose pets are so perfectly saintly, that indeed they are never either seen or heard, such that their very existence might be doubted by less believing and worshipful parties.

With this, let me close now my address. And in post-scriptum, I beg your indulgence long enough only for me to add: I am walking the dog; she is not now nor ever was or will be walking me.

Re: A Nice Snack

From: eskarina (eskaimbimbo@dogmail.com)
To: JHU Frat boys (jhufrat@jhu.edu)

Dear Frat Boys,

Thank you for the massive slice of pizza you were too drunk to finish and left for me right outside The Marylander. It really hit the spot. My new owner, she tried to pry it from me, but I had it in my maw like a vice-grip. Poor asshole. She thinks she can train me with this cookie bullshit. Fuck that. Why would I take her lame-ass cookies when I can eat your pizza?

Anyway, just wanted to say my stomach and I appreciate your generosity. I look forward to more of your leftovers.

Lots of love,
Eska

So studious

Today, Eska chewed through a pencil.

You read correctly: a pencil. HB, no 2; wood on the outside, lead on the inside.

I'm not even calling poison control, because apparently, there is absolutely NOTHING that can get to this dog.

This, again, in a split-second turn away from me.

What am I to do with you, Eska?

I have added this to her playlist, because I think it's appropriate.

Some days are better than others

Some days are slippy, other days sloppy
Some days you can't stand the sight of a puppy ...

Tuesday night, I went to the U2 concert in Hyattsville, Maryland. It was a fantastic occasion and it was good to be reunited with so many of my loves all at the same time. I knew crating Eska for an evening (in the interest of having her NOT get into my roommates' things) and feeding her an hour early would put her off schedule, but I had no idea to what extent she'd react.

Yesterday morning, we woke up early and took a long, lovely walk, during which she was exceptionally well-behaved.

Suspicious.

She whined as soon as I crated her - unprecedented behaviour (unless you count the first week, when she was still getting used to her new surroundings) - and continued doing so as I got ready for class, tidied up the living room, and went about my daily business. I let her out to pee (maybe she has to pee, I thought): no dice. I put on Penguin Cafe Orchestra, her favourite CD; it appeased her only temporarily. Finally, fifteen minutes before my lesson, I had no choice but to leave.

I came home an hour later than usual to a crate turned upside down (though not literally): Eska had managed to push her tray almost completely out of its position, had flipped over, tangled up, and knotted every blanket, sheet, and cover in what was meant to be her own personal cavern of comfortable exploration, and had chewed through the fluffy duvet covering her lair.

Lovely.

I took her out for a walk later that day: exceptionally good behaviour again.

Some days are honest, some days are not
Some days you're thankful for what you've got
Some days you wake up in the army
And some days it's the enemy ...

The juniper bends

Yesterday's behaviour explained:
A now empty bag of what was once a considerable amount of marshmallows (left conspicuously on the counter by the alternately "one and only" and "dime a dozen" Julia) was found in her crate this morning. That kind of sugar rush will compel you to eat pretty much anything, I'm sure.

I am making an Eska play-list of songs that we sing on our walks together. So far, I have only four tracks:
1) "Cinder and Smoke" by Iron and Wine; the street "Juniper" bends up from Calvert.
2) "This Little Bird" by Marianne Faithfull, tastefully covered by Jewel (and her mom); I am trying to get Eska to *like* (read: stop chasing) birds.
3) "La casetta in Canada" by Gino Latilla ; sung exclusively when walking down Abell and surrounded, on either side, by row upon row of brightly coloured, happily decorated houses, fully equipped with requisite lawn furniture and patio acoutrements.
4) The Eska Song - Symphony for Sled Dogs: original composition and Viennese waltz. I'll whistle it for you upon request.

Brian sings The Ting Tings' "That's not my name" to Eska every time I call her Sarah Jones or anything else that is no near-derivative of her name. I might add it to the list for good measure.

I have been searching for a song about squirrels that might help me snap her habit of chasing them, too, but so far, have turned up nothing adequate.

Eska usually walks nicely, but every few days or so, she feels the burning need to disobey me at every opportunity. It's not her fault, really. The problem with Eska is not actually a problem with Eska; she and I were simply both bred (or are genetically wired) to lead the pack. She walks in front of me, as if to pull me on a sleigh. I correct her, and she stands indifferent. She lets me have my way for a stretch no longer than ten minutes, then attempts to take the helm again.

Short memory? Absolutely not.

It takes one to know one.

If she were not so beautiful in her defiance, it might be much easier for me to discipline her.

My singing makes an ever-so-slight difference (on most days), but a difference nonetheless.

Instalment A(SPCA)

Eska is a 1.5 year old Husky/ Border Collie/ German Shepherd with separation anxiety and a weak stomach. Fun times all around. I've had her for three weeks, and every day, she has taught me something new about her digestive system, my neighbour's lawn, the ethics of socialising people and animals, or how to get urine out of carpets. I have decided to share these experiences with other dog owners, that they might take courage from my failures in the world of disciplinary-dog action, and that they might always remember that It Could Be Worse.

Today:
Eska got into a tube of Cortaid (hydrocortisone cream). I called the ASPCA pet poison control line, who charged me 60$ to tell me that she would likely suffer from oily diarrhea and excessive thirst and urine for the next few days.

Fucking bitch.

She's lucky it's nothing more serious.