Eska clearly feels like Zeus on Thursdays. It's only because she's (pseudo)Italian.
Thursdays are when I leave her out of her crate during my shower, because I will be home for most of the day (not having lesson or seminar and only having tutorial with Mrs. Hopkins at 3). The sense of freedom afforded her must also leave her with an equal sense of audacity - it is precisely (and consistently) on Thursdays, during my shower, that she gets into things she's not supposed to.
Yesterday, she chewed a corner off Dunkies' CD case. (I was kind of glad she did).
But I wonder what it is about showers (or about Thursdays) that gets her going ...
Later, in the evening, I brought her with me to Marsha's where she played - nicely! - with three year-old and significantly smaller beagle Thor. I admit: at first, I was a little concerned she might eat him or, more likely, his sister cat, Luna. She held off, but couldn't resist the temptation to chew away at and eventually swallow an entire rawhide bone from his vast collection of them.
I guess she thought that if it was okay for him to lick at her kong (which I brought to distract her while we ate), it would be fine for her to eat his snack.
Smart and vindictive.
On second thought, Eska must be Greek.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Going green?
Recently, Baltimore decided to vamp up its trash collection city by-laws in a conscious and sustained effort to go green.
Congratulations, Baltimore. Brian (the environmental engineer) and I both appreciate your conscientious decision, not to mention the noisy weekly trips you make down our alley every Tuesday morning.
I'm a little confused, though. Did you think that by cutting the number of public waste-baskets there are in the city, you'd reduce either the amount of trash produced by its people, or their tendency to litter?
Seems untenable.
I sometimes, on my walks with puppy, go for miles holding a bag of (by the time I dispose of it no longer) steaming hot poopies before I get the opportunity to toss it. This municipal oversight - that is, the shortage of garbage bins around - might be exclusive to the "highbrow" neighbourhoods I walk through (nothing but the best for my baby girl) and/or might be part of a larger project of aestheticisation/ beauty preservation of said areas. Still, less respectful citizens, I'm sure (in fact, I KNOW from seeing it done, repeatedly) would not be as patient as I: if there is no trash bin in immediate sight, many either toss their garbage to the ground or, in the case of dog feces, never even bother to scoop it up.
I guess there's no law here compelling clean up after dogs in any place other than clearly designated areas (mostly parks). And I suppose it would be silly for me to expect dog-ownership to factor into urban planning. But would it kill you to have a couple more bins available in Guilford or Roland Park? Would residents along Wendover, Underwood, Overhill, Linkwood, or Millbrook really mind all that much?
Do their votes really count so much that you even care?
Eska doesn't seem to mind, except when holding a bag of shit interferes with my dexterity in getting cookies out of my pants-pocket.
Congratulations, Baltimore. Brian (the environmental engineer) and I both appreciate your conscientious decision, not to mention the noisy weekly trips you make down our alley every Tuesday morning.
I'm a little confused, though. Did you think that by cutting the number of public waste-baskets there are in the city, you'd reduce either the amount of trash produced by its people, or their tendency to litter?
Seems untenable.
I sometimes, on my walks with puppy, go for miles holding a bag of (by the time I dispose of it no longer) steaming hot poopies before I get the opportunity to toss it. This municipal oversight - that is, the shortage of garbage bins around - might be exclusive to the "highbrow" neighbourhoods I walk through (nothing but the best for my baby girl) and/or might be part of a larger project of aestheticisation/ beauty preservation of said areas. Still, less respectful citizens, I'm sure (in fact, I KNOW from seeing it done, repeatedly) would not be as patient as I: if there is no trash bin in immediate sight, many either toss their garbage to the ground or, in the case of dog feces, never even bother to scoop it up.
I guess there's no law here compelling clean up after dogs in any place other than clearly designated areas (mostly parks). And I suppose it would be silly for me to expect dog-ownership to factor into urban planning. But would it kill you to have a couple more bins available in Guilford or Roland Park? Would residents along Wendover, Underwood, Overhill, Linkwood, or Millbrook really mind all that much?
Do their votes really count so much that you even care?
Eska doesn't seem to mind, except when holding a bag of shit interferes with my dexterity in getting cookies out of my pants-pocket.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
ANTM - dog edition
Just a few pictures of the puppy, and a stellar home video - look for more, soon!
Because naturally, my bed is better than hers.
So sleepy ...
... And she always arrives when I'm leaving ...
She sees a squirrel, probably.
To Sherwood Gardens!
Because naturally, my bed is better than hers.
So sleepy ...
... And she always arrives when I'm leaving ...
She sees a squirrel, probably.
To Sherwood Gardens!
Monday, October 5, 2009
Oration à la Valla
To my neighbours here assembled:
Since, undeniably, you are all - or purport to be - Cesar Millan, and since, moreover, I am nothing other than a lowly graduate student barely able, indeed, to manage her own life, let alone to be held accountable for that of another breathing creature, I must, with due reverence and respect respond now to your concerns about the means by which I parent my one and only dog, expressing nothing, as, I hope, will be clear, if not absolute appreciation for your fears and vexations listed here below. Let me be brief in stating their essence and more laborious in dealing with their cause since therein, I am told, is a resolution to be found.
Of your first concern that my dog is "unhappy": perhaps in your infinitely acute observation, you have found that my dog, more often when left in bad company than when left alone, whines, whimpers, and at times indeed howls, to signal what you might rightfully identify a general state of unrest. Your suggestion - silent, lest you offend me with your unsolicited advice - that such a condition be curbed, cured, and ammended with love, affection, freedom, adequate feeding, and play, I take with not a little sincere thanks since I, having in the place of a beating heart an unfeeling stone, and having rather than a brain, a malfunctioning muscle composed only of air and water, would never have thought to bestow upon my pet any of your recommended attentions. From the bottom of my unfeeling stone, then, may I convey my most genuine gratitude for this unfailingly perfect proposition.
Of your next concern that my dog is "ill-behaved": you will say, and I will readily admit, that at the heart of good behaviour is not only proper, but indeed sufficient - and that is not to say exaggerated - discipline. You will tell me that to make allowances is to show weakness, to permit frivolities is to sabotage and undermine any real attempts at asserting dominance, to be flimsy - that is, not rigid - is to relinquish control, and you will add that every slight bit of bad behaviour is to be firmly and consistently punished, and that only good behaviour is to be rewarded with gifts, tangible, palatable, or otherwise. Again, I give you thanks, for again, I hold with only the utmost admiration your very astute reasonings which, since it would be far beneath anyone of your excellence to state banalities, must be of the least trifling quality, and therefore not the smallest bit obvious to common layfolk like myself.
Since, furthermore, it would be incommensurate with your constitution to by the very same token present conflicting concerns (or at the very least, inconsistent methods to quell them), I must emphasise again my own criminal failings and reprehensible shortcomings as a dog-owner in their ever arising. And since, in your unending wisdom, you would never fail properly to examine all sides and facets of any given situation before jumping to conclusions, I must also now resign myself to view it nothing if not unwise, uncautious, inscrupulous, and self-indulgently excusing to consider as reasons for my dog's unhappiness her still young age, her particularly high-strung breed, or her clinical behaviour dilemmas, real or imagined: her ostensible separation anxiety and her reasonably assumed autism.
Finally, to those overly magnanimous few who insist on to any small degree acknowledging my difficulty and benevolence in taking up the responsibilty and commitment of caring for a dog once neglected, abused, and abandoned and now veritably scarred for life, I say both that your excessive generosity is embarrassing, and that it might best be reserved for the praise of those pet owners who leave their dogs to bark ceaselessly on their front lawns or to roll unabashedly in heaping piles of dung in the dog park, or, perhaps better, of those fantastical and ephemeral few whose pets are so perfectly saintly, that indeed they are never either seen or heard, such that their very existence might be doubted by less believing and worshipful parties.
With this, let me close now my address. And in post-scriptum, I beg your indulgence long enough only for me to add: I am walking the dog; she is not now nor ever was or will be walking me.
Since, undeniably, you are all - or purport to be - Cesar Millan, and since, moreover, I am nothing other than a lowly graduate student barely able, indeed, to manage her own life, let alone to be held accountable for that of another breathing creature, I must, with due reverence and respect respond now to your concerns about the means by which I parent my one and only dog, expressing nothing, as, I hope, will be clear, if not absolute appreciation for your fears and vexations listed here below. Let me be brief in stating their essence and more laborious in dealing with their cause since therein, I am told, is a resolution to be found.
Of your first concern that my dog is "unhappy": perhaps in your infinitely acute observation, you have found that my dog, more often when left in bad company than when left alone, whines, whimpers, and at times indeed howls, to signal what you might rightfully identify a general state of unrest. Your suggestion - silent, lest you offend me with your unsolicited advice - that such a condition be curbed, cured, and ammended with love, affection, freedom, adequate feeding, and play, I take with not a little sincere thanks since I, having in the place of a beating heart an unfeeling stone, and having rather than a brain, a malfunctioning muscle composed only of air and water, would never have thought to bestow upon my pet any of your recommended attentions. From the bottom of my unfeeling stone, then, may I convey my most genuine gratitude for this unfailingly perfect proposition.
Of your next concern that my dog is "ill-behaved": you will say, and I will readily admit, that at the heart of good behaviour is not only proper, but indeed sufficient - and that is not to say exaggerated - discipline. You will tell me that to make allowances is to show weakness, to permit frivolities is to sabotage and undermine any real attempts at asserting dominance, to be flimsy - that is, not rigid - is to relinquish control, and you will add that every slight bit of bad behaviour is to be firmly and consistently punished, and that only good behaviour is to be rewarded with gifts, tangible, palatable, or otherwise. Again, I give you thanks, for again, I hold with only the utmost admiration your very astute reasonings which, since it would be far beneath anyone of your excellence to state banalities, must be of the least trifling quality, and therefore not the smallest bit obvious to common layfolk like myself.
Since, furthermore, it would be incommensurate with your constitution to by the very same token present conflicting concerns (or at the very least, inconsistent methods to quell them), I must emphasise again my own criminal failings and reprehensible shortcomings as a dog-owner in their ever arising. And since, in your unending wisdom, you would never fail properly to examine all sides and facets of any given situation before jumping to conclusions, I must also now resign myself to view it nothing if not unwise, uncautious, inscrupulous, and self-indulgently excusing to consider as reasons for my dog's unhappiness her still young age, her particularly high-strung breed, or her clinical behaviour dilemmas, real or imagined: her ostensible separation anxiety and her reasonably assumed autism.
Finally, to those overly magnanimous few who insist on to any small degree acknowledging my difficulty and benevolence in taking up the responsibilty and commitment of caring for a dog once neglected, abused, and abandoned and now veritably scarred for life, I say both that your excessive generosity is embarrassing, and that it might best be reserved for the praise of those pet owners who leave their dogs to bark ceaselessly on their front lawns or to roll unabashedly in heaping piles of dung in the dog park, or, perhaps better, of those fantastical and ephemeral few whose pets are so perfectly saintly, that indeed they are never either seen or heard, such that their very existence might be doubted by less believing and worshipful parties.
With this, let me close now my address. And in post-scriptum, I beg your indulgence long enough only for me to add: I am walking the dog; she is not now nor ever was or will be walking me.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Re: A Nice Snack
From: eskarina (eskaimbimbo@dogmail.com)
To: JHU Frat boys (jhufrat@jhu.edu)
Dear Frat Boys,
Thank you for the massive slice of pizza you were too drunk to finish and left for me right outside The Marylander. It really hit the spot. My new owner, she tried to pry it from me, but I had it in my maw like a vice-grip. Poor asshole. She thinks she can train me with this cookie bullshit. Fuck that. Why would I take her lame-ass cookies when I can eat your pizza?
Anyway, just wanted to say my stomach and I appreciate your generosity. I look forward to more of your leftovers.
Lots of love,
Eska
To: JHU Frat boys (jhufrat@jhu.edu)
Dear Frat Boys,
Thank you for the massive slice of pizza you were too drunk to finish and left for me right outside The Marylander. It really hit the spot. My new owner, she tried to pry it from me, but I had it in my maw like a vice-grip. Poor asshole. She thinks she can train me with this cookie bullshit. Fuck that. Why would I take her lame-ass cookies when I can eat your pizza?
Anyway, just wanted to say my stomach and I appreciate your generosity. I look forward to more of your leftovers.
Lots of love,
Eska
Friday, October 2, 2009
So studious
Today, Eska chewed through a pencil.
You read correctly: a pencil. HB, no 2; wood on the outside, lead on the inside.
I'm not even calling poison control, because apparently, there is absolutely NOTHING that can get to this dog.
This, again, in a split-second turn away from me.
What am I to do with you, Eska?
I have added this to her playlist, because I think it's appropriate.
You read correctly: a pencil. HB, no 2; wood on the outside, lead on the inside.
I'm not even calling poison control, because apparently, there is absolutely NOTHING that can get to this dog.
This, again, in a split-second turn away from me.
What am I to do with you, Eska?
I have added this to her playlist, because I think it's appropriate.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Some days are better than others
Some days are slippy, other days sloppy
Some days you can't stand the sight of a puppy ...
Tuesday night, I went to the U2 concert in Hyattsville, Maryland. It was a fantastic occasion and it was good to be reunited with so many of my loves all at the same time. I knew crating Eska for an evening (in the interest of having her NOT get into my roommates' things) and feeding her an hour early would put her off schedule, but I had no idea to what extent she'd react.
Yesterday morning, we woke up early and took a long, lovely walk, during which she was exceptionally well-behaved.
Suspicious.
She whined as soon as I crated her - unprecedented behaviour (unless you count the first week, when she was still getting used to her new surroundings) - and continued doing so as I got ready for class, tidied up the living room, and went about my daily business. I let her out to pee (maybe she has to pee, I thought): no dice. I put on Penguin Cafe Orchestra, her favourite CD; it appeased her only temporarily. Finally, fifteen minutes before my lesson, I had no choice but to leave.
I came home an hour later than usual to a crate turned upside down (though not literally): Eska had managed to push her tray almost completely out of its position, had flipped over, tangled up, and knotted every blanket, sheet, and cover in what was meant to be her own personal cavern of comfortable exploration, and had chewed through the fluffy duvet covering her lair.
Lovely.
I took her out for a walk later that day: exceptionally good behaviour again.
Some days are honest, some days are not
Some days you're thankful for what you've got
Some days you wake up in the army
And some days it's the enemy ...
Some days you can't stand the sight of a puppy ...
Tuesday night, I went to the U2 concert in Hyattsville, Maryland. It was a fantastic occasion and it was good to be reunited with so many of my loves all at the same time. I knew crating Eska for an evening (in the interest of having her NOT get into my roommates' things) and feeding her an hour early would put her off schedule, but I had no idea to what extent she'd react.
Yesterday morning, we woke up early and took a long, lovely walk, during which she was exceptionally well-behaved.
Suspicious.
She whined as soon as I crated her - unprecedented behaviour (unless you count the first week, when she was still getting used to her new surroundings) - and continued doing so as I got ready for class, tidied up the living room, and went about my daily business. I let her out to pee (maybe she has to pee, I thought): no dice. I put on Penguin Cafe Orchestra, her favourite CD; it appeased her only temporarily. Finally, fifteen minutes before my lesson, I had no choice but to leave.
I came home an hour later than usual to a crate turned upside down (though not literally): Eska had managed to push her tray almost completely out of its position, had flipped over, tangled up, and knotted every blanket, sheet, and cover in what was meant to be her own personal cavern of comfortable exploration, and had chewed through the fluffy duvet covering her lair.
Lovely.
I took her out for a walk later that day: exceptionally good behaviour again.
Some days are honest, some days are not
Some days you're thankful for what you've got
Some days you wake up in the army
And some days it's the enemy ...
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