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.
Friday, October 30, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, October 26, 2009
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?
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?
Friday, October 23, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
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.
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.Friday, October 9, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
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!
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!
Monday, October 5, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
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
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
Friday, October 2, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
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 ...
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 ...
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