me, most notably.
Eska did well yesterday. She was quiet on our morning walk, she was quiet when I left her to go to Mrs. Hopkins' house, she was equally complacent when I again left her to go Halloween shopping with Auntie Jen and Auntie Shana, and she was calm (relatively) at her release when I got home. She fought the urge - helped by much of our negative prompting - to get into the remains of our pumpkins as we carved them, and she didn't even cry when Aunties left.
She stood by the door before they even had their coats on in a gest that usually means "I need to go (#2) ... take me out." She never wears her choke-collar for these trips, because they are usually brief, direct, and devoid of any distraction.
Eska did NOT, in fact, need to go. What she *did* feel the need to do is sniff out a rat in our alley, drag me around the block chasing it at top speed, and resist my attempts at halting to such an extent that I fell knees and palms first into a (small) pile of gravel. My ONLY decent pair of jeans are now no longer; more importantly, my knee, which I thought was only scratched, is veritably busted: it is painful, today, to move it in any direction.
Well, I hope it was worth the excitement, Skarri. Perhaps someday, you will realise that rats, much like squirrels, because they are ubiquitous in Baltimore, are not even worth the chase. Supply well exceeds demand. The novelty is gone, Eska. Move on.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
Cut the cord
or lose the leash, whatever.
When my neighbour Roslyn told me about a fantastic trail I could pick up on 33rd and follow under the Keswick bridge out to Pacific, I was enchanted, and had to sniff around, Eska in tow (it goes without saying). I've now done it twice, and was amazed both times at how friendly Hampden-Remington dog owners are compared to Guilford-Roland Park pet parents. I should have figured, but didn't.
Saturday, before my and Brian's full-day vacuum dramas, Eska and I met Murphy Stout, Stella Artois, and their charming owner at 2917 Keswick. We stopped and chatted for a while, Eska taunted by the unattainable appearance of the adorable Pit Bull-Hound and gorgeous Belgian Shepherd (respectively) behind the glass door protecting them - but not us - from the rain. As is customary among dog-crew, I didn't actually get 2917's name. But he told me about every possible green space within the vicinity (including some without it) I could take Eska to, and hoped we might cross paths again, perhaps in an enclosed green space (when construction on the park was finally done) so our dogs could play. We thanked him for his suggestions, then continued on our way.
This morning, Eska stopped at 2917 and tried to crawl behind its welcoming glass door through the one-inch slot between it and the stoop to say hello to her new friends.
One street over, she made another.
Still on Keswick, around 30th or 31st, there is a children's playground surrounded by ample field. I have taken Eska here before, and brought her here again today to throw a ball around, so she'd be pooped and prepared for another half-day in her crate. No sooner had I put her on her retractable leash, than she'd leaped toward something to me still imperceptible.
Oliver, the Bulldog-Shepherd had crept up on us silently, but not unmarkedly: he was running at full speed, and Eska decided to follow.
What ensued was an at times embarrassing, at times funny, but mostly just *active* session of four-way dog-play; as Eska and Oliver rolled around within the confines of Eska's retractable leash, Theresa (Oliver's owner) and I chatted and surveyed our puppies' activity, sometimes joining in to give them more slack.
Delightful.
I was very tempted indeed to let Piccina off her leash, because it seemed like with both Theresa and I there, she could get into precious little trouble. Still, I couldn't bring myself to ignore the nagging voice in my head that kept insisting, "But what if she runs away?"
I trust her plenty. I do. I'm just not sure I trust myself to have the calmness and presence of mind to deal with a fugitive dog, should her flight ever, indeed, come about.
Perhaps it's time to cut the cord?
But what if it's too soon?
When my neighbour Roslyn told me about a fantastic trail I could pick up on 33rd and follow under the Keswick bridge out to Pacific, I was enchanted, and had to sniff around, Eska in tow (it goes without saying). I've now done it twice, and was amazed both times at how friendly Hampden-Remington dog owners are compared to Guilford-Roland Park pet parents. I should have figured, but didn't.
Saturday, before my and Brian's full-day vacuum dramas, Eska and I met Murphy Stout, Stella Artois, and their charming owner at 2917 Keswick. We stopped and chatted for a while, Eska taunted by the unattainable appearance of the adorable Pit Bull-Hound and gorgeous Belgian Shepherd (respectively) behind the glass door protecting them - but not us - from the rain. As is customary among dog-crew, I didn't actually get 2917's name. But he told me about every possible green space within the vicinity (including some without it) I could take Eska to, and hoped we might cross paths again, perhaps in an enclosed green space (when construction on the park was finally done) so our dogs could play. We thanked him for his suggestions, then continued on our way.
This morning, Eska stopped at 2917 and tried to crawl behind its welcoming glass door through the one-inch slot between it and the stoop to say hello to her new friends.
One street over, she made another.
Still on Keswick, around 30th or 31st, there is a children's playground surrounded by ample field. I have taken Eska here before, and brought her here again today to throw a ball around, so she'd be pooped and prepared for another half-day in her crate. No sooner had I put her on her retractable leash, than she'd leaped toward something to me still imperceptible.
Oliver, the Bulldog-Shepherd had crept up on us silently, but not unmarkedly: he was running at full speed, and Eska decided to follow.
What ensued was an at times embarrassing, at times funny, but mostly just *active* session of four-way dog-play; as Eska and Oliver rolled around within the confines of Eska's retractable leash, Theresa (Oliver's owner) and I chatted and surveyed our puppies' activity, sometimes joining in to give them more slack.
Delightful.
I was very tempted indeed to let Piccina off her leash, because it seemed like with both Theresa and I there, she could get into precious little trouble. Still, I couldn't bring myself to ignore the nagging voice in my head that kept insisting, "But what if she runs away?"
I trust her plenty. I do. I'm just not sure I trust myself to have the calmness and presence of mind to deal with a fugitive dog, should her flight ever, indeed, come about.
Perhaps it's time to cut the cord?
But what if it's too soon?
Friday, October 23, 2009
Aunt Kitty
Half a block away, up Cresmont, there is a parked Jeep that never moves. It wouldn't be particularly noteworthy if it didn't have a spare tire on the back covered with a black leather casing with a picture of Elvis on it, under which reads the caption "We love you, Aunt Kitty!" I have always wondered about this vehicle. Yesterday, I made a discovery that has put my curiosity to rest.
Because I would be expecting guests at 8pm, and because the sidewalks of Baltimore - poorly lit - are really no place to be after dark (even in the safer areas ... you can't see a damn thing), I decided to preempt my walk with Eska by two hours and took her out at 4, before dinner, rather than at 6, after it. This, I discovered, is when all the fun happens, and this is when I met Aunt Kitty.
A few highlights before we get to her:
- Eska and I discovered a large reservoir along Northway (where Greenway forks off in the direction of Loyola campus)and Millbrook. We might go running here when it is less populated.
- Along Cold Spring Lane, Eska recovered a dead squirrel from a pile of debris, but was just as quickly disgusted by it as I was and put it down even before I had the time to say the (by her) dreaded keyword, "butta."
- We met Eddie the dog, his young mistress, and her (also young) mother sitting on their front porch on Cresmont, just a few doors down from Aunt Kitty. Eddie's mistress was concocting some magic potion to get him to stop barking (out of what I can only imagine was apple juice) and entreated Eska and I to watch her put it together. So we did. Until Baby got restless and started lunging at the eighteen cats seemingly emerging from every hidden corner of the street.
Which brings me to Aunt Kitty.
Just before Eska and I met up with Eddie and his entourage, we bumped into a perfectly pleasant and typically Baltimorean woman. Read: heavy smoker, dowdily dressed, impeccable Bawlmorese. "You're a rullll pretty dog," she told Eska as we walked by. "Thanks," I said, speaking on Baby's behalf. " ... rulllllllll pretty," she continued, as half a dozen cats began to crop up around her.
Eska got excited, and the woman sensed it.
"Oh, you like cats, do you girl? Yeah ... you better get used to 'em ... there's a LOTTA cats on this street ....a LOT of 'em ... they're EVERYWHERE, girl, EVERYWHERE, cats EVERYWHERE, you gotta get used to it ... tell your mommy, tell her ... 'but Mommy, I want one ...' she'll get you one, you just tell her. She'll get you a whole bunch ..."
Elvis Jeep mystery solved. There is no other explanation.
I like Aunt Kitty. She's certainly got character. To be clear, though, Mommy will most certainly not be getting any cats for Baby; besides, the entire contingent of the ASPCA cat shelter seems to have been adopted, already.
So, to recap:
1) Batshit crazy MINISTER OF THE STATE OF MARYLAND, neighbour, Denis
2) Aunt Kitty
Welcome to the neighbourhood.
Because I would be expecting guests at 8pm, and because the sidewalks of Baltimore - poorly lit - are really no place to be after dark (even in the safer areas ... you can't see a damn thing), I decided to preempt my walk with Eska by two hours and took her out at 4, before dinner, rather than at 6, after it. This, I discovered, is when all the fun happens, and this is when I met Aunt Kitty.
A few highlights before we get to her:
- Eska and I discovered a large reservoir along Northway (where Greenway forks off in the direction of Loyola campus)and Millbrook. We might go running here when it is less populated.
- Along Cold Spring Lane, Eska recovered a dead squirrel from a pile of debris, but was just as quickly disgusted by it as I was and put it down even before I had the time to say the (by her) dreaded keyword, "butta."
- We met Eddie the dog, his young mistress, and her (also young) mother sitting on their front porch on Cresmont, just a few doors down from Aunt Kitty. Eddie's mistress was concocting some magic potion to get him to stop barking (out of what I can only imagine was apple juice) and entreated Eska and I to watch her put it together. So we did. Until Baby got restless and started lunging at the eighteen cats seemingly emerging from every hidden corner of the street.
Which brings me to Aunt Kitty.
Just before Eska and I met up with Eddie and his entourage, we bumped into a perfectly pleasant and typically Baltimorean woman. Read: heavy smoker, dowdily dressed, impeccable Bawlmorese. "You're a rullll pretty dog," she told Eska as we walked by. "Thanks," I said, speaking on Baby's behalf. " ... rulllllllll pretty," she continued, as half a dozen cats began to crop up around her.
Eska got excited, and the woman sensed it.
"Oh, you like cats, do you girl? Yeah ... you better get used to 'em ... there's a LOTTA cats on this street ....a LOT of 'em ... they're EVERYWHERE, girl, EVERYWHERE, cats EVERYWHERE, you gotta get used to it ... tell your mommy, tell her ... 'but Mommy, I want one ...' she'll get you one, you just tell her. She'll get you a whole bunch ..."
Elvis Jeep mystery solved. There is no other explanation.
I like Aunt Kitty. She's certainly got character. To be clear, though, Mommy will most certainly not be getting any cats for Baby; besides, the entire contingent of the ASPCA cat shelter seems to have been adopted, already.
So, to recap:
1) Batshit crazy MINISTER OF THE STATE OF MARYLAND, neighbour, Denis
2) Aunt Kitty
Welcome to the neighbourhood.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Furbettina
l'Eschietta.
Today, I played a little game with Eska before leaving. With each item of "outer wear" I put on (which got her attention), I left her a little treat to pick up in the spot I was leaving. I gave her half a cookie in her crate, left the other half in the doorway to my room as I put on my coat, left a rawhide bone under the coffee table in the living room as I drew my boots on, and finally, set down a milkbone in the entrance as I threw on my schoolbag and headed out. Each time, she responded impeccably: she brought her newly found item into her crate, then followed me to retrieve the next. I left the apartment when I heard her settle with her fun objects in her treasure cove.
She's so smart, I thought. Maybe today will be a good day.
Today was not a bad day, to tell the truth: she broke the handle off an espresso cup and turned over a box of paper, but she could have done worse.
Then I looked into the kitchen.
It's true, as a neighbour (and her dog, Milo) told me this morning: this girl is not just a pretty face. Much like she found her way into the trash can earlier this week, today she managed to pry open the cupboard where I keep her cookies and treats. I don't think she ate any, as all the boxes seemed to be as full (or as empty) as I had left them, but that's entirely beside the point.
Good looks, a killer personality, and a brain?
Who is this dog? Me?
Ha.
Today, I played a little game with Eska before leaving. With each item of "outer wear" I put on (which got her attention), I left her a little treat to pick up in the spot I was leaving. I gave her half a cookie in her crate, left the other half in the doorway to my room as I put on my coat, left a rawhide bone under the coffee table in the living room as I drew my boots on, and finally, set down a milkbone in the entrance as I threw on my schoolbag and headed out. Each time, she responded impeccably: she brought her newly found item into her crate, then followed me to retrieve the next. I left the apartment when I heard her settle with her fun objects in her treasure cove.
She's so smart, I thought. Maybe today will be a good day.
Today was not a bad day, to tell the truth: she broke the handle off an espresso cup and turned over a box of paper, but she could have done worse.
Then I looked into the kitchen.
It's true, as a neighbour (and her dog, Milo) told me this morning: this girl is not just a pretty face. Much like she found her way into the trash can earlier this week, today she managed to pry open the cupboard where I keep her cookies and treats. I don't think she ate any, as all the boxes seemed to be as full (or as empty) as I had left them, but that's entirely beside the point.
Good looks, a killer personality, and a brain?
Who is this dog? Me?
Ha.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
New digs
Eska survived the move, but barely.
This weekend, I fled from Calvert and relocated just three blocks south and four (major) blocks west to W29th - new home for Eskarina and I. My father and I took care of the heavy lifting. Brian and his sprained ankle navigated our awkward trips with bulky furniture down the Calvert stairs and did light carrying out to the UHaul. My mother babysat the dog.
She had the toughest job, undeniably.
The week's end revealed an Eska just as angsty and irritated as its beginning had promised; by the end of the move, she was no more settled than she had been at its outset. In fact, she howled inordinately whenever my parents left the premises. She seems to be getting a little better now, slowly.
She only took to my father, I'm convinced, not because he's excellent with dogs, but because he fed her eight times the amount she usually eats, lavished her with cookies, bones, and other treats, and fattened her up on table scraps.
He also left me a dog with a severe (two-day) case of diarrhea; I would have almost preferred her to have eaten more hydrocortisone cream.
I am experimenting with free-range existence: yesterday, while left to her devices, she got to - and through - a bag of bagels, leaving me only 2 of the 6 it originally contained. Today, she only managed to sniff out the garbage and miraculously avoided getting her face snapped off by a mousetrap.
Good work, Skarri. Jamais deux sans trois. I am certainly looking forward to tomorrow.
This weekend, I fled from Calvert and relocated just three blocks south and four (major) blocks west to W29th - new home for Eskarina and I. My father and I took care of the heavy lifting. Brian and his sprained ankle navigated our awkward trips with bulky furniture down the Calvert stairs and did light carrying out to the UHaul. My mother babysat the dog.
She had the toughest job, undeniably.
The week's end revealed an Eska just as angsty and irritated as its beginning had promised; by the end of the move, she was no more settled than she had been at its outset. In fact, she howled inordinately whenever my parents left the premises. She seems to be getting a little better now, slowly.
She only took to my father, I'm convinced, not because he's excellent with dogs, but because he fed her eight times the amount she usually eats, lavished her with cookies, bones, and other treats, and fattened her up on table scraps.
He also left me a dog with a severe (two-day) case of diarrhea; I would have almost preferred her to have eaten more hydrocortisone cream.
I am experimenting with free-range existence: yesterday, while left to her devices, she got to - and through - a bag of bagels, leaving me only 2 of the 6 it originally contained. Today, she only managed to sniff out the garbage and miraculously avoided getting her face snapped off by a mousetrap.
Good work, Skarri. Jamais deux sans trois. I am certainly looking forward to tomorrow.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
I am going to need a blog about Dunkies
After our (Eska-related) blowout yesterday, I vowed never to speak to Dunkies again. Ever.
She decided *actually*, really, truly, and verifiably to make my life a living hell.
To wit:
Today was another insane day. Apart from having to deal with the move (I have begun moving my kitchen into my new apartment, packing my common area belongings, and gathering boxes to pack my room), I also, lest we forget, am taking care of a difficult dog, teaching, attending classes and lectures, and keeping up with my work. Fine. No one says I deserve a medal for it, but give me a fucking break.
Tonight, my supervisor, as director of JHU's Singleton Center (for interdisciplinary studies), introduced the first speaker of the Singleton series (who gave a brilliant talk on the school of Caravaggio). Out of solidarity, support, and general interest, I attended. I made sure to feed and walk Eska preemptively and only to leave the house when she was comfortably settled in her crate, as per usual. I made sure she had her kong to chew on, plenty of water to wash down the peanut butter, and a safe background lull of television. All was well.
I got home 2.5 hours later to:
a) a howling dog
b) a crate turned upside down (while she was still in it)
c) a kong suspiciously outside her crate (I never let Eska have her kong out of context)
d) a dining room table littered with Dunkies' disorganised stuff
e) the kitchen light on and the door to the mudroom open.
I mean, if you are going to so obviously let the dog out, decide that she's too much to handle (because she hates you, as she should, because you're actually a horrible person), then inhumanely shove her back in her crate without the decency of giving her a snack or of telling me you are harassing my dog, at least try to cover your tracks.
Saturday cannot arrive too soon. I am tempted to sleep on the floor of my new apartment until then, Eska in tow.
She decided *actually*, really, truly, and verifiably to make my life a living hell.
To wit:
Today was another insane day. Apart from having to deal with the move (I have begun moving my kitchen into my new apartment, packing my common area belongings, and gathering boxes to pack my room), I also, lest we forget, am taking care of a difficult dog, teaching, attending classes and lectures, and keeping up with my work. Fine. No one says I deserve a medal for it, but give me a fucking break.
Tonight, my supervisor, as director of JHU's Singleton Center (for interdisciplinary studies), introduced the first speaker of the Singleton series (who gave a brilliant talk on the school of Caravaggio). Out of solidarity, support, and general interest, I attended. I made sure to feed and walk Eska preemptively and only to leave the house when she was comfortably settled in her crate, as per usual. I made sure she had her kong to chew on, plenty of water to wash down the peanut butter, and a safe background lull of television. All was well.
I got home 2.5 hours later to:
a) a howling dog
b) a crate turned upside down (while she was still in it)
c) a kong suspiciously outside her crate (I never let Eska have her kong out of context)
d) a dining room table littered with Dunkies' disorganised stuff
e) the kitchen light on and the door to the mudroom open.
I mean, if you are going to so obviously let the dog out, decide that she's too much to handle (because she hates you, as she should, because you're actually a horrible person), then inhumanely shove her back in her crate without the decency of giving her a snack or of telling me you are harassing my dog, at least try to cover your tracks.
Saturday cannot arrive too soon. I am tempted to sleep on the floor of my new apartment until then, Eska in tow.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
My Sunday with Amore cuore
Eska was restless as soon as she woke up from her nap around 3.30pm. I don't know why, but I am going to blame it on Dunkies (because I like blaming everything on Dunkies). I kept her in my room with me most of the day in an effort to avoid having her contaminated by contact with said atrocious roommate, and this was the result: she heard noise in the lower levels, and she didn't like it.
Poor Eskarina. She might not fare any better being sandwiched between two apartments and having to deal with their respective sounds in less than a week's time, but what can I do?
I still love you, 'mmore cù. I really do.
Almost as entertaining, but in a different way, Eska's reaction to "Do you want a cookie-cooooooookie-cookie?" :
Oh, Skarri ... you're just a lil baby-girl.
Poor Eskarina. She might not fare any better being sandwiched between two apartments and having to deal with their respective sounds in less than a week's time, but what can I do?
I still love you, 'mmore cù. I really do.
Almost as entertaining, but in a different way, Eska's reaction to "Do you want a cookie-cooooooookie-cookie?" :
Oh, Skarri ... you're just a lil baby-girl.
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