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.