Well it's happened once before, but Bruno was a puppy then, barely even two months old. He probably saw me use it, or it probably smelled like me, and anyway, he only damaged a corner of it and I didn't even have to plead my case: the gods of understanding sided with me.
But my heart leapt up (in terror) higher than Wordsworth's would (in joy) when he'd behold a rainbow in the sky at the sight of MSEL's very own, very exclusive (yellowing, old, and now out of print) copy of Giacomo D'Ancona's Critica e storia della letteratura italiana delle origini, parte prima torn to shreds and scattered all over my bedroom floor.
The stolen half-loaf of freshly-baked banana bread this morning, then the half-cupcake on the side of the road should have tipped me off to a particularly aggressive mood coming over my girl this side of the new moon. I'm not sure why I decided, today, that tethering her to the desk would be smarter than crating her.
The decision itself might not have been so intelligent, but I hope to the high heavens that at least Eska is after all that voracious (r)ea[d]ing.
It was a protest of sorts, I guess.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Saturday, February 5, 2011
The Cycle of Life
Novellino, Novella XCII:
"There was a woman who had baked a fine eel tart and had placed it in the cupboard. She saw a mouse enter by a window, drawn by its aroma. She beckoned to her cat and placed it in the cupboard to grab the mouse. The mouse hid itself in some flour and the cat ate the tart. And when she opened the door, the mouse jumped out, but the cat did not catch it because its belly was full."
So, Eska is really a reincarnation of a late 13th, early 14th-century Italian cat.
You know, I suspected she might be. Tout s'explique.
"There was a woman who had baked a fine eel tart and had placed it in the cupboard. She saw a mouse enter by a window, drawn by its aroma. She beckoned to her cat and placed it in the cupboard to grab the mouse. The mouse hid itself in some flour and the cat ate the tart. And when she opened the door, the mouse jumped out, but the cat did not catch it because its belly was full."
So, Eska is really a reincarnation of a late 13th, early 14th-century Italian cat.
You know, I suspected she might be. Tout s'explique.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Baltimore: the city that sleeps
I shouldn't complain, really. Eska and I are both nordic creatures accustomed to the cold (and everything that comes with it) and highly expectant that most other places exposed to it even minimally know how to deal with it. Back when I still lived in Quebec, knowing about an overnight freeze meant waking up 15-20 minutes earlier than usual the next day and salting (and often also sanding) your stairs and the stretch of sidewalk connected to your property. It was just common sense. In Baltimore and despite the increased potential for lawsuit (rampant nationwide, and filed for any and every offense), it means sleeping in until the one responsible guy on your block who probably has kids and a real job takes care of his property and yours because, with five mouths to feed, he can't afford to fall and break a leg on the way to his car up the street.
Still, I thought that by 8.40, most people even lacking conscience would have the obligation to be up, heading to work, scratching the ice off their car windows, and all the rest.
It took Eska and me 20 minutes to walk a stretch it normally takes us the better part of 7 to reach; I cut our walk short. She wasn't particularly happy with me, but Hopkins won't pay the bill for a severed limb - mine or hers.
Still, I thought that by 8.40, most people even lacking conscience would have the obligation to be up, heading to work, scratching the ice off their car windows, and all the rest.
It took Eska and me 20 minutes to walk a stretch it normally takes us the better part of 7 to reach; I cut our walk short. She wasn't particularly happy with me, but Hopkins won't pay the bill for a severed limb - mine or hers.
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