This morning, Eska and I had oatmeal for breakfast, and things got weird.
By "weird," I mean, of course, that I had a sudden trans-mammal revelation that will surely change my life.
I don't much like oatmeal and never have. I recently bought some to have handy on those mornings when I am out of either cereal or milk, thinking I'd give it another chance and let it "grow on me" (as has been known to happen). But halfway through my bowl, I remembered why I never liked it in the first place, and handed it over to Eska in what I thought would turn out to be a dismal, and ultimately failed experiment.
She LOVED it. Lapped it all up. Couldn't get enough.
Now, it's true that on the whole issue of nature vs. nurture, I have never known where to hang my hat. I used to be all "nature" before I got Eska, but having her, and watching her transformation from the cold, shrewd, aggressive, half-crazed pup she was to the "sweet and kind and gentle" (and soft and prutty and musha-musha (rhymes with kush)) pup-a-lup during her years with me has sort of changed my mind. Or in any event, I've reconsidered my position.
But this morning, watching her go at it, my first thought was that she must be part British. How else could I explain her particular fancy for porridge, and her overall general belief that she is, in fact, the queen of England?
And THAT's when I remembered that she totes, legitimately is: the border collie half of her, anyway.
(Let's momentarily forget that Eska eats just about everything with gusto, and let's also skip the part where we consider whether dietary habits particular to ethnicities (or breeds, in this case) are the product of genetic predetermination or adaptation to their immediate environment and just agree that Brits don't eat like Italians, and Italians don't eat like Moroccans, and Moroccans don't eat like Ugandans, and so on and so forth, and blah blah blah...)
It was one small step for nature, and one huge step for my brain in remembering the whole root of the debate to begin with. My undergrad self is completely unimpressed with me right now. But my grad-school, underground-solitary-existence-hermit-mode current self sings with joy. She dances, too.
For her next birthday, I am making Eska shortbread and serving it with a shot of vodka and some pickles.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Bed, Bath, and Beyond
I never thought this day would come, but today, for the first time in 2.5 years, I managed to give Eska a full bath (and brush) without having her howl for mercy. In fact, she didn't make a peep. Though tentative at first, she even sat quietly when I took out the blowdryer - a new twist on the traditional towel-dry option I usually exclusively select.
All pampered and primped, she is now sitting on a pile of my clothes staring at me (I'd like to think fondly).
I think she's in it for the long haul, folks.
All pampered and primped, she is now sitting on a pile of my clothes staring at me (I'd like to think fondly).
I think she's in it for the long haul, folks.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
That don't impress her much
She won't settle for just anyone, and why should she? She's got it all: brains, brawn, beauty, AND a sense of humour.
Still, I thought she might swoon just a little at the sign of true genius.
Meh. Who the FUCK is Johann Sebastian Bach, and why should I care?
Today was another study-at-home day to compensate for being mostly away during the last two. Usually, Eska is thankful when I make such compromises, and demonstrates her appreciation by spending most of the day with me in bed, or on the sofa (wherever Fiona and I happen to be). Today, however, though she popped in every now and then, she only came to stay for a sustained amount of time twice -- both times, when I paused my Bach Preludes and Fugues youtube playlist.
I am not sure if her distaste for my man John extends to classical music as a genre; she always seemed to share at least a little in my love affair with Chopin. Or maybe it's just Germans she takes issue with, given her French (Canadian) stock. I will have to experiment a little bit to find out.
I wonder where he places on the scale from Fiona Apple to Decio.
I have to say, though, reading to Fatboy Slim isn't quite the same -- or at all possible.
On the bright side, I have now identified my favourite Preludes and Fugues from the set of 24: they are 2, 6, 10, 12, and 18 (in case you were wondering).
Surely, this investment of time was just as essential as, say, the development of my dissertation.
Still, I thought she might swoon just a little at the sign of true genius.
Meh. Who the FUCK is Johann Sebastian Bach, and why should I care?
Today was another study-at-home day to compensate for being mostly away during the last two. Usually, Eska is thankful when I make such compromises, and demonstrates her appreciation by spending most of the day with me in bed, or on the sofa (wherever Fiona and I happen to be). Today, however, though she popped in every now and then, she only came to stay for a sustained amount of time twice -- both times, when I paused my Bach Preludes and Fugues youtube playlist.
I am not sure if her distaste for my man John extends to classical music as a genre; she always seemed to share at least a little in my love affair with Chopin. Or maybe it's just Germans she takes issue with, given her French (Canadian) stock. I will have to experiment a little bit to find out.
I wonder where he places on the scale from Fiona Apple to Decio.
I have to say, though, reading to Fatboy Slim isn't quite the same -- or at all possible.
On the bright side, I have now identified my favourite Preludes and Fugues from the set of 24: they are 2, 6, 10, 12, and 18 (in case you were wondering).
Surely, this investment of time was just as essential as, say, the development of my dissertation.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Steppin' out with the Killer
HoMa feline lovers: if you are the owner of a black cat with a bitten and bleeding behind, please make contact. It's my fault.
Remember that doubt I once had about whether or not Eska's anxiety around cats could be attributed to playfulness rather than aggression? Well, that doubt was definitively laid to rest today.
My landlord invited me in to have a look at the work he's been doing on his apartment just beneath me. We took the opportunity to let Eska make use of his huge backyard in the meantime. The first few minutes were nice. There was snow, and frolicking, and life was grand.
It wasn't long, however, before we heard a series of loud, aggressive barks resonate from somewhere outside, not too far from that. Surely, that's not my dog, I thought. My dog never barks. My dog has only ever barked in moments of extreme frustration with me, and those have only occurred twice in our over two year history. Surely, this was someone else's dog.
Only, it wasn't. This was my dog, and the target of her barking: a fat, juicy black cat perched just out of her reach.
I saw the whole thing happen. It was over before I knew it, even though I was somehow powerless to stop it. The cat swiped at Eska a few times with its paw, which only antagonised her more. Eventually, and hoping to escape, it jumped down into the snow -- a move that only provoked the savage inside my husky mix: she lunged after it and caught it easily by the neck. My landlord stepped in, and the cat managed to escape. Only half a second later, though, Eska again had it lodged in her chops, this time by the rump, and was not letting go.
It took both of us - one yanking by the collar, the other (me) gripping her midsection and raising her front half in the air - to get her to release her prey.
The cat made quick work of fleeing the premises. A quick inspection of Eska's face confirmed my dreaded suspicion: the blood I saw there was absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, NOT hers.
I mean, now I know, right? I guess cat-ownership is not in the cards for me for a while, this means.
Remember that doubt I once had about whether or not Eska's anxiety around cats could be attributed to playfulness rather than aggression? Well, that doubt was definitively laid to rest today.
My landlord invited me in to have a look at the work he's been doing on his apartment just beneath me. We took the opportunity to let Eska make use of his huge backyard in the meantime. The first few minutes were nice. There was snow, and frolicking, and life was grand.
It wasn't long, however, before we heard a series of loud, aggressive barks resonate from somewhere outside, not too far from that. Surely, that's not my dog, I thought. My dog never barks. My dog has only ever barked in moments of extreme frustration with me, and those have only occurred twice in our over two year history. Surely, this was someone else's dog.
Only, it wasn't. This was my dog, and the target of her barking: a fat, juicy black cat perched just out of her reach.
I saw the whole thing happen. It was over before I knew it, even though I was somehow powerless to stop it. The cat swiped at Eska a few times with its paw, which only antagonised her more. Eventually, and hoping to escape, it jumped down into the snow -- a move that only provoked the savage inside my husky mix: she lunged after it and caught it easily by the neck. My landlord stepped in, and the cat managed to escape. Only half a second later, though, Eska again had it lodged in her chops, this time by the rump, and was not letting go.
It took both of us - one yanking by the collar, the other (me) gripping her midsection and raising her front half in the air - to get her to release her prey.
The cat made quick work of fleeing the premises. A quick inspection of Eska's face confirmed my dreaded suspicion: the blood I saw there was absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, NOT hers.
I mean, now I know, right? I guess cat-ownership is not in the cards for me for a while, this means.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Four (and six)-letter words
In recent months, I have been putting a concerted effort into Eska's education. More specifically, we have been working on her vocabulary. Anyone who knows me will know that I don't much belong to the school of thought that sustains that "if you've nothing nice to say, say nothing at all." Still, when thinking about which words I wanted my beloved girl to learn, only the kind ones crossed my mind.
I have been telling her since our partnership that she is a "sweet, and a kind, and a gentle baby," so she's got all those covered. More recently, I taught her "love" by repeating the word after (or following it up with) a kiss (usually on the face, because, let's be honest, she has a pretty face). A month or so of efforts on my end yielded a very tangible (and slobbery) result: when asked "what's love," Eska will plant a long wet one right where it counts.
She's such a smart girl.
I have been trying, for almost just as long, to teach her "friends," but she has been having a harder time with that one. I started with the age-old adage, "cats are friends," but, not surprisingly, she didn't buy it. I tried to pair the repetition of "friends" with hugs and pets, but it was inconclusive whether or not she was actually getting it: "do you know what it is, 'friends,'" consistently got me only a blank stare from my girl. I thought all was lost, and concentrated my efforts on other battles, like getting her to understand the difference between "ball," "bone," and "chicken."
This is why I will never finish my dissertation.
Today, however, as she so frequently does, my beloved little baby pulled a fast one on me. As we sat entwined in what she has come to know as kishnahugs (a kiss and a hug at the same time), I told her that we were best friends. Weren't we the best of friends? Yes, we were the best of friends, I said. Did she know what it was, "friends?" Could she say it to me? What's "friends," girl?
At first, all I was met with was the customary glaze over her eyes. Just as I started to pull away and out of our embrace, though, I saw her face come close to mine and, just like that, she gave me a big ole kiss -- on the cheek.
I dare say, I think she got it.
It's so nice to see her word-count grow in such a healthy direction. Still, I can't wait for the lesson on "motherfucker." Something tells me she won't need much help understanding.
I have been telling her since our partnership that she is a "sweet, and a kind, and a gentle baby," so she's got all those covered. More recently, I taught her "love" by repeating the word after (or following it up with) a kiss (usually on the face, because, let's be honest, she has a pretty face). A month or so of efforts on my end yielded a very tangible (and slobbery) result: when asked "what's love," Eska will plant a long wet one right where it counts.
She's such a smart girl.
I have been trying, for almost just as long, to teach her "friends," but she has been having a harder time with that one. I started with the age-old adage, "cats are friends," but, not surprisingly, she didn't buy it. I tried to pair the repetition of "friends" with hugs and pets, but it was inconclusive whether or not she was actually getting it: "do you know what it is, 'friends,'" consistently got me only a blank stare from my girl. I thought all was lost, and concentrated my efforts on other battles, like getting her to understand the difference between "ball," "bone," and "chicken."
This is why I will never finish my dissertation.
Today, however, as she so frequently does, my beloved little baby pulled a fast one on me. As we sat entwined in what she has come to know as kishnahugs (a kiss and a hug at the same time), I told her that we were best friends. Weren't we the best of friends? Yes, we were the best of friends, I said. Did she know what it was, "friends?" Could she say it to me? What's "friends," girl?
At first, all I was met with was the customary glaze over her eyes. Just as I started to pull away and out of our embrace, though, I saw her face come close to mine and, just like that, she gave me a big ole kiss -- on the cheek.
I dare say, I think she got it.
It's so nice to see her word-count grow in such a healthy direction. Still, I can't wait for the lesson on "motherfucker." Something tells me she won't need much help understanding.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Coureur des bois
She's crafty, my girl. In the nine months or so that she has been off-leash, Eska has never once run off on her own. Never, that is, until this weekend.
That's not to say she's been perfect; she hasn't. I made the mistake of letting one bright-orange hatted, long white bearded man feed her stale granola once, and she followed him into the woods every time she saw him for at least one whole season. And it never takes her much, besides, to decide that if the Wyman Park stream is good enough for Odie or Hero, it's certainly no match for her.
This weekend was different.
"We're going to see your boy B today, girl," I told her as we headed to the park where Brian would be meeting us. She played it cool, despite the 80 degree temperature. By the time we got there, the park was empty: traffic had come and gone, it seemed, and taken with it the tennis ball I left there last week for dry spells like these. No matter, Eska has always been able to entertain herself; she walked over to the marshy area by the stream, sniffed around, looked back at me coyly - twice - before deciding to beeline it into the woods through a hole in the fence and drift far into the muddy construction site on the other side of it, impervious to my calling ...
... precisely three minutes before Brian arrived.
Well, he hadn't signed up for search and rescue duty, but he complied happily and within less than ten minutes, Eska heard (or smelled or sensed) us and came running back.
And of course, because it wasn't enough for her to have Brian- with whom I am trying hard to reestablish a functional friendship - swoop in for the save at a moment of pure panic, she had then to spend the rest of the day walking between us, or weaving around us so that we were constantly invading each others' personal space or otherwise forced to look "cute" to anyone else walking past us.
And she did it so well that it didn't even feel like invasion. It might as well have been 101 fucking Dalmations.
Sneaky little shit. I always thought she preferred the chef.
Hrm.
That's not to say she's been perfect; she hasn't. I made the mistake of letting one bright-orange hatted, long white bearded man feed her stale granola once, and she followed him into the woods every time she saw him for at least one whole season. And it never takes her much, besides, to decide that if the Wyman Park stream is good enough for Odie or Hero, it's certainly no match for her.
This weekend was different.
"We're going to see your boy B today, girl," I told her as we headed to the park where Brian would be meeting us. She played it cool, despite the 80 degree temperature. By the time we got there, the park was empty: traffic had come and gone, it seemed, and taken with it the tennis ball I left there last week for dry spells like these. No matter, Eska has always been able to entertain herself; she walked over to the marshy area by the stream, sniffed around, looked back at me coyly - twice - before deciding to beeline it into the woods through a hole in the fence and drift far into the muddy construction site on the other side of it, impervious to my calling ...
... precisely three minutes before Brian arrived.
Well, he hadn't signed up for search and rescue duty, but he complied happily and within less than ten minutes, Eska heard (or smelled or sensed) us and came running back.
And of course, because it wasn't enough for her to have Brian- with whom I am trying hard to reestablish a functional friendship - swoop in for the save at a moment of pure panic, she had then to spend the rest of the day walking between us, or weaving around us so that we were constantly invading each others' personal space or otherwise forced to look "cute" to anyone else walking past us.
And she did it so well that it didn't even feel like invasion. It might as well have been 101 fucking Dalmations.
Sneaky little shit. I always thought she preferred the chef.
Hrm.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Tel mère ...
Maybe I've conditioned her too well; all those walks to Sherwood Gardens must have put ideas in her head. Still, I'm happy to know that Eska's favourite flowers are tulips -- she won't eat any of the others I buy. My heady hyacinths have been sitting in their vase, untouched, a full two days now.
Unprecedented.
We are so much alike, my girl and I.
Unprecedented.
We are so much alike, my girl and I.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Food for Thought
I got home from BCDC tonight only to discover Eska's newest trick: pulling the folding kitchen closet door out from its tracks. While tethered to the radiator. Ten feet away. Needless to say, the consequences were significantly short of pretty.
Taste of the Wild, do you make food for humans, too?
Taste of the Wild, do you make food for humans, too?
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Higher learning
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
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?
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?
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, October 22, 2010
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.
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.
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.
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