That's Bawlmer, hon

Last night, I took Eska out on our evening walk. We set out on the same route we always follow: up Cresmont to 31st, straight until Remington/33rd, hang a right on Remington and follow it up to Beech ....

All was well on the first leg of our trip. We ran into Andy the fierce terrier shortly after our departure, he and Eska had a little exchange, then they parted ways. She sniffed around my neighbour's garden. Someone stopped to tell her she was beautiful. Same old.

We get up to 31st and make a left, Eska trotting happily behind me. She's walking on the sidewalk, not uncharacteristically, but I can feel her veering toward the grass precisely at the time she usually feels compelled to do her dirty business. Routine. I don't look behind me. It's only when I start fishing in my pocket for the plastic bag I bring with me for such occasions, that I'm alerted to the THE NIGHTMARE I AM ABOUT TO WITNESS by a strange, unfamiliar cross between a squeak and a whimper I hear coming from behind me. I turn around: Eska is holding a dying rat the size of my head in her mouth. Proudly. "Look, mommy. I haz big chew-toy."

So my initial reaction was, verbatim, "ohmygodohmygod EW, ESKA DROP IT!" My next instinct was to add an "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!" and then an "ew. ew. gross. GROSS. Drop it! Ew! Drop!" closing up, finally, with, "good girl. Ohmygod, that was SO gross."

The guy walking just a few feet behind me found the whole scene rather amusing, and tried to make my nervous laughter less awkward by pronouncing some unremarkable comment about my girl's hunting skills.

I know you were hungry, zoeesh, but couldn't you have picked up a candy wrapper instead?

Wait. What?

Today, I forgot to crate or tether Eska before I left the house at 9.45am. Of course, I only realised as much when she greeted me, 4 hours later, AT THE DOOR of my apartment.

My immediate thought was at least ten times worse than yours right now. Troy is coming over in a few hours to work on a massive translation. The house didn't reek of garbage, but that didn't mean anything, necessarily. I didn't want to walk into my room. I didn't. Fear of Consequence gripped and paralysed me and it took me a moment to move in any direction at all.

Eventually, I made my way around an apartment potentially more spotless than the way I left it. I looked everywhere for signs of urine, feces, blood, anything; I found nothing. She hadn't even bothered pulling one of my sweaters carelessly left lying around into her crate for a mid-morning snack.

What kind of a crazy girl is my girl? Is she depressed? I don't get it.

Once I recovered from the shock of her good behaviour, I took her out to pee, then hugged her for a minute and gave her a cookie.

I stopped by Howl on the way home to pick up food and a 6-tie, European-style MountainDog leash. I wasn't sure, at the time, that Eska deserved the rawhide pretzel I added to my order at the last minute. Now, I'm glad I did.

Light-weight: trial

Today, Eska weighs in at 55 lbs for a total weight-loss, since mid-August, of 7 LBS!

She is 5 lbs away from being The Biggest Loser here at 215. Until she hits 50, though, Imma still call her a fatty.

What I learned today was that weight loss in animals - specifically in female domesticated animals - is as difficult as it is for humans - specifically female humans: it gets harder as you go along. Lucky for us, we have stepped up our game in kind: we are up to at least 5-mile runs 5 times a week and approximately 30 minutes of free-range play with other dogs once per week.

My girl, she's pretty good ... for a fatty.

Work the Floor

Today, in my continued procrastination, Eska and I had a lengthy MacBook photoshoot. (Well, actually, it wasn't too long before Eska, with variations on her Marge Simpson noises, threatened to kill me if I pointed my screen at her just one more time.)

I'm not sure whether to call this:


or this:


our worst shot. But this:


was by far our best.

Look at that fuckin' hipster and her fuckin' dog. Total fuckin' foot (fetish) connection.

Symbiosis (or something like it)

Strange things will happen to you when you've got what you think is probably a high fever: you start feeling all your organs, for starters, and you become able, in a way you didn't think possible, to individuate and delineate each and every one. These are my lungs; these are my kidneys; here is my liver - I thought it might be bigger ... You sleep a lot, and sweat through the little clothing you're wearing until your bed - or your couch, or the pile of clothes you fell onto on the floor - are soaked through and through. You wake up at 8pm after another 2-hour nap wondering which of the imaginary reconstructions of your body - external and internal - you just dreamed of was the most realistic, and which could make a bigger contribution to society. No jokes. You don't ask yourself how your hallucinatory visions can contribute in any way to society, or why you even care that they might. You spend two more hours drifting in and out of sleep debating this point with yourself, reviewing all the models of your body you've come up with: this one was nice, but who can learn anything from it? This one was too stylised ... this one was purely functional and with no room for artistic licence afforded in its creation, who would even want to look at it?

Each time you wake up or try to move (an uphill struggle, really), you look around you and notice that Eska is never far away. When you are sprawled out on the bed in what you can't really understand but definitely feel to be a comfortable position, she is lying on the floor foot-to-foot with the frame; when you finally consolidate yourself into a reasonable space on the bed, she's right there with you, lying beside you; when you move to the red couch in the living room for a change of scenery (and hoping for a different kind of back support), she's sitting underneath your coffee table, or in the crevice between your couches, or right there on the other couch beside you so she can look over you and watch your every move.

And when, just before 11pm, you crawl (because crawling is easier than walking, so says your spine) over to the entrance table to get Eska's retractable leash to let her out to pee, she doesn't wait to be called twice. In fact, she doesn't wait to be called at all: she just saunters over, casually circumvents your shivering heap on the floor, and waits patiently while you fumble weakly with her collar to get her hooked and out the door. She doesn't even pull on the way down the stairs the way she might, usually.

When you spend the next day in equal part refueling (read: eating - you haven't done that since Saturday night) and sleeping (again), she never once whines for a walk or whimpers for play-time. She spends the entire day beside you, and if she leaves the room you're in at all, all it takes for her to come right back is your distant and weary call.

Don't get me wrong: she still has The Fight in her, and why shouldn't she? When, around 4pm, she sees you're finally feeling a little better and have emerged from bed long enough to send a few e-mails, she'll walk into the kitchen true to her old self and leap into the sink for some leftover cabbage and cauliflower soup at the bottom of your lunch bowl; it seems only reasonable behaviour to me. But when you chastise her for it, settle back into bed and ask her to join you there, she does, and she does it with such a sweet look on her face that you think, you know what? Fuck it. I WILL take her out tonight, whether I am feeling better or not - she deserves it.

Of course, you think, I hope I can sufficiently motivate by then to give her a good walk - she's been such an angel in a time when she was my only source of anything. She could have chosen to provide worry and frustration, but settled on solace instead, and that deserves to be repaid in kind. Part of you wants to stay in bed a little longer so you can be in tip-top shape when you take her out, guaranteeing her a rip-roaring good time. But it's almost 5pm. Soon, she'll want her dinner, and you know it won't be that much longer until she does start whining for some long-overdue time outside. You know this walk won't be able to thank her for what she's been for you over the past two days, but you have to start somewhere.

You think, deep down, that she understands you, anyway, and that is no small comfort, either.

All Bark

Today, I took Eska to the Wyman Park semi-fenced dog park. I took her around the perimeter of the premises and let her sniff out her geographical confines. Then, I put her on her retractable leash and threw a ball around with her for a few minutes. Finally, and prompted by Eska's consistent pull toward the opposite end of the park, I spotted a man across the field with two dogs - Lucy and Alice - frolicking happily together, walked over to him with my girl in tow, and asked if we could join his party.

He willingly obliged. I let her off the leash, and watched her play as peacefully as the calm before the storm.

Who knew she could even do it?

Back home, when she plays with Bruno - my 130lb chocolate lab who is literally over twice her size - my girl is all teeth and paws and humping. She is unafraid to mount him, bite his legs, get all up in his mouth, and stomp all over him when he (frequently) submits to her. In other words: she is a terror.

Maybe she's different with female dogs, or maybe Lucy and Alice didn't impress her - she chased them around the park and/or let them chase her in turn, and ran after the same ball they did, but made no displays of aggression, playful or otherwise. She was such a good baby shoo.

Soon, our party went from three to seven, with the arrival of three new owners and their dogs. At first, I was worried: fine, she was being nice with her new friends, but what if her good behaviour was a fluke? I mean, let's face it: one shit-eating grin and the knives are out again. My fears were unfounded; today, I learned that my girl is all bark and no bite. She ran at the speed of light to greet her new friends, but stopped at least a foot short of each of them before proceeding to sniff them with extreme caution.

My girl has gone streets, maybe.

Everyone had a delightful time, and Eska petered out sooner than she could say "play." I will attempt this again next week, but only if she is a good girl until then.

Jeopardy! Champ

Eska shares my love of (and obsession with) Jeopardy! Every night, she watches with me, and when it comes down to final jeopardy, she keeps my final wager in check.

Real-life conversation between Eska and me while watching Jeopardy! tonight:

me: 2010 Science News .... ooooh ... that's a tough one. What you think, girl? Should we wager high or low?
Eska: ...
me: What you think? High or low?
Eska: ...
me: High or low, girl? A lot or a lil bitta?
Eska: ...
me: A varry varry much, or a tiny lil bitta? A kish or a hug?
Eska: (licks my hand)
me: Really? You think we should wager a lotta? I don't know, girl, I'm not so good at science.
Eska: (licks other hand)
me: Ok, fine. But if we're wrong, you're paying the credit card company.

The clue asked to identify the astronomer, born in 1473, who'd recently had an element named after him to honour the link between astronomy and chemistry.

Copernicus. It was almost a no-brainer. Only the 3-day champion and I got it right.

My girl, she knows her bank.

Brilliant

Yesterday, Eska and I both developed a deep appreciation for Brillo pads: I, for their truly transformative power over even the most heavily soiled pots and pans, she for their taste.

She tells me they are as tasty as they are fragrant. How nice for her.

Not so nice for my rug.

La rentrée

Eska is not that pleased that I am back to the grind and less often home than I have been in recent months; her bad mood affects me more than it does her, however. To console myself and to annoy her, then, I thought I might stage a "Back to School" photo-shoot of sorts to capture her various reactions to my scholarly activities. Here, the first installment:


Too cool for school.



Too cool for school but going anyway to learn begrudgingly about important things that I will file in my file cabinet ... Le sigh ...

What's with this dress code? / Do I really have to do my homework?

Labour of Love

It's labour day weekend, which means a few things:

1) it's Eska's and my first anniversary! Hooray! The girl has actually stuck with me for a whole year. Who knew it was even possible?

2) Allllllll the crazies are out. All of them. All at once. We met I don't know how many on yesterday's walk. A whole table of hipsters at Rocket to Venus drinking out on the patio actually requested to caress her drunkenly for the better part of five minutes while I just stood there waiting.

Crazies.

3) We are looking for a new home again: I think one move per year is pretty reasonable and, so far, has proven to be healthy for our relationship. God forbid we should get too comfortable in any one place ... Thank the Lord for the small miracles that are crazy roommates and negligent landlords. What would we do without them?

Pest control

Eska and the apartment have been de-flead. Or, well, they've withstood the first round of de-fleaing: more (surely) to come next week around this time.

I'd already administered her another dose of Frontline Advantix late last week, and hoped that might be the end of it. When I found two more fleas rummaging through her belly fur this morning, I knew I had to take the next step: flea-bath for my girl.

I had already purchased a whole array of products for the task - shampoo, household upholstery spray, flea collar - but hoped I might not, in the end, have to use them. Eska was not happy with me when I lured her into the tub with a cookie only to lather her up with, judging by its smell, what could only be an *uncomfortable* hygienic product. She did pretty well all things considered: she didn't whimper until the very end, and even then, she kept her sobs to a bare minimum. She didn't even go her typical crazy when I dried her and let her out of the bathroom.

My T-shirt didn't do as well: I walked away from the adventure more soaked than she.

Most importantly, though, my newly jaded (Jade is the new Black, I am told) fingernails also emerged unscathed from the ordeal. I was concerned they might not, but O.P.I. stands the test again.

While she sat - voluntarily - in her crate, I flea-proofed the rest of the apartment with Hartz' magical spray: both couches, the carpet, my bedding, and hers have all been shot with the stuff in an attempt to rid us (perhaps it is too ambitious to say "for good", but realistically, at least for now) of our unwelcome visitors.

Who even knows how she got them to begin with? I mean, she doesn't play with many other dogs, and even when she does, her bouts are infrequent and short-lived. I suppose it only takes a second for the critters to jump from one coat to another. Still. I prefer blaming the rodents invading my apartment that my landlord continues to neglect. They carry the very devil with them, it's undeniably true.

She is whining now, because for the next 35 minutes, she has to sit still where she is, as any other surface she'd be likely to sit on is being treated.

I know, my girl, and I'm sorry, but it's for your own good (says Dora).

Fan Mail

I took Eska out this morning, as I always do, crossed the street and walked up Cresmont, as I always do, scooped around to campus, as I sometimes do - a not unusual route. As we prepared to cross the street at the corner of 31st and Wyman Park Drive, a motorist slowed down at the cross-walk and rolled down his window.

"Hi there! I know you from Howl," he said. I remembered seeing him there and asking him for dieting tips for my girl. I remember him being quite helpful.

"Hi!" was all I managed to say. The sun was shining in my face and all around his head. We were having a Roma Downey moment, even.

"I just wanted to say, you've got to be the best dog-owner in this neighbourhood. I see the two of you EVERYWHERE - you walk that dog like crazy, and she seems really happy for it. I just wanted to let you know ..."

Floored. Completely. I could barely get out a "thanks! It's kind of you to notice" let alone a "you're really cute and your dieting tips are working - thanks for the help!"

But more importantly: yo, I'm a celebrity.

I smiled the rest of the way home. Eska did, too.

Renamed

Ten points to the first person who can correctly "translate" Eska's new name (this week).

Are you ready for it?

Here it is:

Zoeesha Maa-goo The-Girl

(hint: the first two names each translate into two English words)

Best of luck.

Dieting

As it turns out, dieting is good both for the budget (two weeks later, Eska is still working through a 5-lb bag of Taste of the Wild it usually took her about a week to devour entirely) and for the manners.

Natbat stayed with me in Baltimore this past week and insisted that no table scraps be part of Eska's diet. Not relying on human food, she said, would make my girl a more peaceful eater and would allow me better to appreciate my meals.

She was right. Admittedly, it was difficult, in the first few days, to avoid the increasingly tremulous barks at the dinner table that screamed, "bitch, where's my steak?" and "how come I don't get any spinach." Now that she's gotten used to having hard-asses around, my girl seems to have calmed down in the food department a little. She even begs less than she did a week ago.

I'm not sure how long this good behaviour will last. The best thing about dieting (which neither Natbat nor I anticipated), however, was the effect it would have on Eska's immediate social skills: today, she calmly lay down beside me while I heated up - and didn't share - leftover rice for lunch. She didn't even whine when I didn't give her any.

My poor little baby shoo - she knows I don't like to eat alone. She just wanted to keep the ma company.

Or, more likely, she hoped the ma would change her mind and be swayed by the baby's excellent disposition.

The worst thing about dieting is the hunger. Yesterday, Eska fished out a stale loaf of bread from the garbage while I put Auntie Natbat in a cab to Penn Station. She didn't even bother knocking the whole thing over as she usually does: she went straight for the goods. Poor baby on her poor empty stomach.

Whatever. As long as these eating habits stay good for my wallet, we're sticking with them.

Husky

My girl is officially obese. My suspicion was confirmed today at the Falls Animal Hospital -- she has gone from 47lbs (more or less) in December to a whopping 62lbs now!

She could stand to lose approximately 10lbs, I was told.

I have already halved her daily dose of food and scaled snacks and treats back to the very bare minimum. Next step: put her on a Science Diet (or something like it), and increase her daily exercise.

Oy.

My goal is to get her back down to 50-55lbs by Christmas. I think I can do it. You can help.

Meanwhile, I nearly had to pay an exorbitant emergency fee at the veterinary clinic today, because the cab I called at 9.30am only showed up at my house (8 phone calls and three VERY angry conversations with three separate "managers" later) at 10.15 - 15 minutes PAST my appointment time (which, if you arrive at late by 30 minutes or more, you lose or have to pay extra to be seen immediately).

I got there at 10.34, but I think the (probably lesbian)vet had a crush on me and didn't charge me the surplus. Sweet.

Digression:

My Indian cab driver could barely speak a word of English. Originally, he went to pick me up at 603 Club Road (the last location from which I'd called a cab, though NOT the address I gave them over the phone this morning). When I asked the taxi service to check the whereabouts of my cab, they discovered him there and rerouted him to my address. Only, by the time he got there, I had already moved on and was trying to hail a cab several blocks away. A call from the manager told me to loop back - my cab would be waiting for me at my doorstep. Except, SURPRISE! When I got there, it was already gone. Livid, I eventually tracked him down on the corner of 29th and Howard, a block or so from where he was SUPPOSED to be and was prepared to deal with him calmly, until he had the nerve to tell me to put my dog ON THE FLOOR OF THE TAXI.

THAT'S when I lost my shit and told him he really wasn't in any position to be making any kind of demands right now, and that if he didn't start moving to get me to my final destination immediately, I'd happily talk to his manager - on the line - FOR him, though I probably wouldn't deal with the situation in a way he'd appreciate. He asked me where I wanted to go, and though I repeated the address AND the location AND the easiest way to get there 3 TIMES, he still stopped A HIGHWAY SHORT and asked me if I wanted to get out at a doggie spa and boutique.

Why would I have asked for 6314 Falls Road, Animal Hospital, all the way over the overpass, if I wanted this CLOSED doggie spa and boutique?

Tu me niaises-tu?

"No, sir. Does this look like the Animal Hospital to you? This is 5912 Falls Road. You have a while to go before 6314, unless I am counting wrong."

The total of the cab ride was $15.60. I gave him a $20 bill. When he handed me $3.00 and started fishing in his pockets for change, I nearly lost my shit again.

me: $4.40 is what you owe me, sir.

cabbie: No. $1 charge for call.

me: No, sir. You will give me that $1.

cabbie: No. Is rule. Call charge $1.

me: Sir, I can sit here all day if you'd like. I'm not leaving without my full change.

He handed over the extra dollar, and Eska and I hopped out.

I walked the 1.5 hours home (sometimes along the highway) in the rain. Fuck Checker Cab, man. They have lost my patronage forever.

The good news is, Eska kept up on the walk home and didn't even stop once to rest. Maybe she's not as out of shape as I have made her out to be.

A Little Bit Louder Now ...

This morning, I slept in. 6.30 rolled around, and I ignored the alarm. 7.30 came and went. 8.30 reared its head and I showed no interest in moving. I likely would have stayed in bed all day if my girl had not insistently woken me up - with her VOICE. Normally, when she needs to go, is hungry, or just wants attention, she'll walk around on my bed and eventually settle reeeeeeal close to (or on top of) me until I make a move. This morning, she was vocal about her frustration.

Oh, my sweet Ciurina. You just want the mommy to be functional, and what would she do without you?

Eska has been displaying an uncharacteristic amount of tenderness toward me these days. If I didn't know SO much better, I'd hitch a ride to the SPCA and get her a friend - she's just begging for consistent company.

Poor little one.

Let's dance

Every day, I attempt to dance with Eska, and every day she attempts to rebel against me ... a question of growls and hisses and general discontent every time I lift her onto her hind legs and sway her front legs from side to side ....

Five minutes ago, I cut myself a slice of fresh, multi-grain, farmer's market bread and just completely smothered it with the Bee's Knees all-natural crunchy peanut-butter. The "Cake" playing in the background really had me grooving, so (and not unusually) I started swirling around the room with my snack, turning my back to my girl. When I had turned back around, she was up on her hind legs, grabbing for my midsection for support: in other words, she was DANCING for food.

It was the funniest thing I've ever seen in my entire life. Then, she did it again.

Maybe she just needed a little cake and peanut butter inspiration .... I always knew she had a sweet tooth.

Doggie Depression

The Dog Daily tells me it exists. It also tells me that one way to counteract or reverse it is to replace lost canine companionship (in this case, Bruno) with a new playmate - a compelling but less than feasible option for me right now. Instead, I have decided to let Eska off-leash for part of our walks when in a controlled (if not confined) area and in the presence of other dogs.

Today was experimentation part 1, and we were met with relative success. Before unleashing Eska in the park on Keswick and 33rd, I told my neighbour, who was there with his two dogs, that my girl was a little frisky but mostly friendly, and that I was experimenting with her and hoped things wouldn't go terribly awry.

He was patient and friendly, and his dogs were, too.

Eska ran around a little bit, occasionally glancing back at me to make sure I was still there, retreated to the woods and sniffed around there, but eventually stood still long enough for me to re-leash her.

I'll take it.

Eventually, I will have her walking off-leash in the woods without any canine company, and without worrying whether or not she will come back to me. For now, though, baby steps encourage me.

The next time B-more Charming School for Dogs offers a drop-in class on off-leash walking, I'm signing up. I'm hoping, that way, both to learn training tricks (now that Eska is temperate enough for professional training) and to permit Eska to make new doggy friends and secure doggy playdates.

I'm kind of excited ...

True Blue

Post leaving Bruno, Eska is bona fide depressed. She won't respond to ball-throwing. She just lets herself be kissed and hugged without protest (completely out of character). She doesn't even perk up at the sound of "y'anta coo?"

Today, we ran into her old flame Nissa, and she barely even said hello.

I mean, it's true that once you go Bruno, you don't go back ... it was true blue puppy love, I guess.

Poor girl.

Playlist, continued

LCD Soundsystem. It just brought Eska to my room.

LCD Soundsystem in my room is to Eska what my milkshake in the yard is to the boys. Or something.

She likes this stuff, is the point.

Bruno is all about the Harry Belafonte.

Three's a Crowd

I have been sick for a little over a week now, and the only thing I appreciate about illness is the amount it permits me to sleep. I nap twice to three times a day, and some nights, I even sleep 9 whole hours.

Three days ago, I woke up to roughly 185 lbs of canine companionship on my bed. I had been sleeping so soundly, I hadn't felt Bruno's 135 lbs heavily deposit themselves strategically around me and Eska. Every morning since then, from the time my brother leaves for work at 6.30am to the time I wake up to walk and feed them, the dogs and I practically share breath.

At least I am not sleeping alone.

Double your pleasure, double your fun

Day three double-dogsitting in Montreal, and I've got the sniffles. It's not so terrible, really. Eska is sitting at the foot of my bed for an uncustomary daytime lounge. She feels my pain, I think. If Bruno weren't so depressed about my parents being away on vacation, he'd be up here too. Wisely, he's chosen to take advantage of their absence and do his lounging on our white couch. He knows it's off-limits. He also knows he's too big for me to drag off of it without breaking an uncomfortable sweat.

Clever.

He makes it up to my room for visits when he detects, somehow, that I am talking to Brian on gchat. He gets terribly jealous or protective or something, and needs to make his presence felt. Eska is the same way, or was, in the brief period during which Brian was over at the apartment regularly, which would make sense: Eska is an only-dog-child and is accustomed to being the center of my attention. It's only normal that she would be territorial when other people were up in her grill, no matter how much she loved them.

Bruno is just some kind of crazy ESP guerilla dog. I'm surprised Fab ever made the cut.

Anyway, it's their fault if I'm sniffly. I took them out this morning, as usual, for their AM walk before it started to rain, confident that I had beat the ominous forecast. I hadn't. It started to come down just as Eska and I began our sprints across the community soccer field, Bruno following close behind with his deflated soccer ball, waiting for me to kick it out for him every now and then. I mean, I'm thankful that he cut the free-range time short: his spontaneous jump in the swamp which caps soccer-field time came much earlier than usual, and likely because he sensed that I was dying out there. He's such a good shoo. The rest of our walk was still 30 minutes long, though, or something like that, under what turned out to be more than just your run-of-the-mill drizzle.

Eska is sleeping peacefully: maybe she has the sniffles, too.

There has been much doggy-love here at the Zampini manor in the past three weeks or so. Both my shoos have been getting along. Eska is learning to share her toys nicely. Bruno is more patient with her eager teeth. Sometimes, we catch them sleeping so close to each other, it strikes a beautiful doggy chord in everyone's heart.

Two dogs are not unmanageable. It is a daily struggle reminding myself that they would be if I lived alone, in a small apartment, without a yard.

... Well would you look at that? ...

Uncle Army is having less of it than I am - not hard, considering how much of it I'm having. His niece ate his headphones and a raw burger he was about to barbecue yesterday: he was most unimpressed with her. What can I say? She doesn't like it when I leave her in favour of the bathroom or Fiona. She's a bit of a baby that way. Uncle Army has requested that I leave the manor and take my dog with me, but I am unprepared to deprive Bruno of his girl just yet: he loves her so much. You can tell.

Motherhood will be difficult, I told Bruno today, and it's true: how can I ever be absolutely certain I am showing both of my shoos the same amount of love and affection, while making sure I am attentive to all of their special needs?

Now imagine they were human.

Well, it might be easier if they were human, because they could at least tell me if I were doing it wrong. Right now, the only things I have to go by are the looks on their little doggy faces.

Dora is losing her shit.

What's nicest about double doggy duty, I guess, is the warmth. It's unseasonably (and unreasonably) cold in the True North, and naps would be long without my furry comforters.

Say it inna ear

Yesterday, Eska said it inna ear - while I was gone: she ate my headphones through and through.

Serves me right.

You're Fired

Today, I fired Eska.

I mean, I think I was justified: she is terrible at her job. She doesn't bark when strange people enter or exit the house. She kisses rather than hisses at delivery men she's never seen when they come and invade her space. She runs for cover (usually behind me) anytime she hears a loud noise or walks beside large, imposing machinery. She ineffectually chases mice when they crawl out of her food and onto my kitchen table. Actually. I mean, ok, she scares them back into their little mouse holes, but that doesn't help either one of us.

I gave her her pink slip today and wished her luck with her search. She really is the weakest link in this equation.

Free-range Existence

Eska and I have entered week 2 of free-range existence (ie, I am no longer crating her during the day in an attempt to see if a perceived increase in trust (mine) can lead to a reduction of excitability (hers). So far, not bad: yesterday, she only got at the potatoes, and not even, really -- she only pulled the bag out from under the counter and played with it a little bit. She didn't even BITE into any. Jeez.

This time last week (or a little earlier), I came home to ten pounds of flour scattered allllllll over my apartment; I'll take mangled potatoes.

She's a weird girl, really. The other day, she just dragged a bag of mine into her crate with her, for fun. She didn't even do anything to it (that I can notice) - I assume she just sat on it.

I mean, there's got to be something I'm missing. Flour, purse, potatoes. What's the missing link?

Miss Fatness USA

Recently, I decided I would attempt taking Eska on runs again. The last time I tried was January, before the mountains of snow fell, and it went disastrously: she pulled and dragged and still managed to get distracted and I more than once almost lost my footing (and, by association, my face). Saturday, I tried again, and Little Miss Eats-Everything-in-Sight (the Second -- she takes after her mommy) couldn't keep up. We had to keep stopping because dragging her along was becoming a nuisance. I mean, ok. I have been "training," if yu will, while she hasn't. Still, it simply cannot be the case that my mediocre regimen is so effective that I have become Miss Fitness USA in 3 months. No. my girl is just fat and out of shape.

I am putting her on a diet.

Today, we tried again and she fared better: she only petered out toward the end, right before the cooldown (conveniently right after my hot neighbour with the killer legs in his little shorts sprinted by us, leaving us to eat his dust. Most of me wishes she'd just given up before, so our pitiful pace could more easily be attributed to her weakness and not mine).

No more peanut-butter for three weeks. Grandpa will surely spoil her soon enough, anyway.

Try This at Home

We almost play this anyway.


Eska and I participated in the Maryland SPCA fundraising March for the Animals this past Sunday (yesterday) and there got acquainted with what I think is a brilliant spin on an age-old crowd-pleaser: musical chairs ... for dogs!


Step 1: play music
Step 2: stop music
Step 3: get your dog to sit

Last dog to sit gets OUSTED! Ha!


I am going to play this with Eska every day. And then I am going to practice other commands like "down all the way" or "give a kesh" or "ZITTA!" What are the chances any of this will take?

ANTM - dog edition + owner

Because, Michel, you asked for them:

Nap-time

Peek-a-boo

Jamais deux sans trois

Today, Eska and I added a third game to our usual repertoire to complete the set. We call it "Howareyougonnageddit?" -- the logical third part to a trio begun with "Gooandgeddit" and followed up with "Immunnageddit."

This is what it looks like (pictured): I leave you to imagine the basic premise and execution.

She is not so good at this game, but she is learning.

March for the Animals

Because I feel the need to post this EVERYWHERE (for maximum exposure) and because the Montreal SPCA may or may not be reading, subsequent to Michel's passive-aggressive e-mail about the status of his (problem) dog:

http://www.marchfortheanimals.kintera.org/eska

Please lend (us) your support today! The walk is April 18, 2010, and we hope you can join us in spirit if not in person or in bills.

Old Relia ....

After much thought and careful consideration of my options, I have decided to throw away Eska's "blanket" - the part mattress-cover, part bedsheet, part giant fluffy mess that sits at the base of her crate. It has been through urination and peanut butter stains, and shit bombs and the rest, but I don't think it can withstand another bout of vomit (like this morning's). I tried washing it in my tub (since it releases fuzz into the washing machine, making my neighbours quite happy with me), and I was even pretty successful at it, but you know what? I just don't care anymore. I am going to buy her a new one - maybe something that won't remind her of bodily fluids and that won't, then, inspire her to go ahead and emit them. Maybe that will help.

Polyglot

I have many skills. It's true, I do. Among them: language acquisition .... or should I say (more often than not), language invention.

I am fluent in English, French, Italian, and Trevor, and have elementary reading knowledge of Latin. (German REALLY doesn't count). I am most accomplished, however, in Eskese.

I have been building a steady Eskese vocabulary over the past five months. I started small with things like, "coo" (for cookie), "yanta" (for "do you want a"), and "qui-see" (syntactically inverted italian for "we're going this way").

But Eskese isn't all about vocabulary. In fact, a much larger portion of the things I tell Eska are particular not in the words I select, but in the way in which they are put together, enunciated, or delivered.

To wit:

me: Deshanta mai, sheese da bess won?
Eska: (looks up)
me: Yissa my yissa. Sheese da bess won.

(Is my girl the best one? Yes. She's the best one.)

Or:

me: Skarina, my love. Kava kesh?
Eska: (no reaction)
me: COME ON! Not even a kesh, I can hava. Kava kava, my girl? Kava a lel lel won?
Eska: (steadfast)
me: Fine. Have it your way. But dass not even varry varry. In fact, iss varry varry.

(Eska, my love, can I have a kiss? COME ON! I can't even have a kiss? Can I have one, can I have one, my girl? Can I have a little, little one [kiss]? Fine. Have it your way. But that's not very [nice of you]. In fact, it's very [mean of you]).

Getting the hang of it?

The Look

Eska has been particularly sweet with me, almost consistently, since (the dreaded) Wednesday evening and the disaster it left in its wake. Yesterday, we had a scintillating game of immunnageddit (i goddit) and she was more enthused than I have ever seen her. Right now, she is lounging on my bed, staring at me fondly and longingly as I type from my "dining room" table.

Are we in love, Skarina, my girl?
I thought so.

Puppy Love II

drunken black man, middle-aged, on 29th, to me: I know errrrrbody tell you how beautiful you are ...
to Eska (jumping): Yeah, I love you, too.

Nice.
I always knew I was cuter.

Puppy Love

A few videos of the puppies from back home (well, one video, because the other won't upload); soundtrack provided by Yours Truly, featuring Mama Zamp and the Pop.

Cesar Millan: Eat Your Heart Out

You got NOTHIN' on my dad.

So, I leave Eskarina, my love, with Daddy-dearest, for three weeks. He alters her diet (she is now eating a mixture of Taste of the Wild and c/d prescription), takes her on extended walks in the woods, lets her enjoy endless playtime with Bruno, and she is returned to me a saintly dog among dogs. True story.

Since we have been back, she has not whined (with the exception of the very first time I put her n her crate), jumped into the sink, gotten into the trash, or hijacked my slippers.

She did, however, get into my lip gloss and chapstick. Again. (Some) old habits die hard.

But in all honesty, I really think she smartened up a bit over her French-Canadian holiday. Last night, I asked her if she would please make sure I got up when my alarm went off at 5am. Because it is hot as the gates of hell in my room (and, more specifically, on my bed, right by the radiator), she spent the whole night sleeping on the floor. At 5am, my alarm rang. 10 minutes later, when she saw I was not reacting to its repeated buzz (on snooze), she jumped up on the bed and, rather than resuming her usual position at its foot, walked all over me and licked my face.

I mean, I didn't get up. But she did what she had to do.

Who even needs an alarm clock anymore?