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.