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.