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.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, October 11, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
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.
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.
She tells me they are as tasty as they are fragrant. How nice for her.
Not so nice for my rug.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
