True Blue

Post leaving Bruno, Eska is bona fide depressed. She won't respond to ball-throwing. She just lets herself be kissed and hugged without protest (completely out of character). She doesn't even perk up at the sound of "y'anta coo?"

Today, we ran into her old flame Nissa, and she barely even said hello.

I mean, it's true that once you go Bruno, you don't go back ... it was true blue puppy love, I guess.

Poor girl.

Playlist, continued

LCD Soundsystem. It just brought Eska to my room.

LCD Soundsystem in my room is to Eska what my milkshake in the yard is to the boys. Or something.

She likes this stuff, is the point.

Bruno is all about the Harry Belafonte.

Three's a Crowd

I have been sick for a little over a week now, and the only thing I appreciate about illness is the amount it permits me to sleep. I nap twice to three times a day, and some nights, I even sleep 9 whole hours.

Three days ago, I woke up to roughly 185 lbs of canine companionship on my bed. I had been sleeping so soundly, I hadn't felt Bruno's 135 lbs heavily deposit themselves strategically around me and Eska. Every morning since then, from the time my brother leaves for work at 6.30am to the time I wake up to walk and feed them, the dogs and I practically share breath.

At least I am not sleeping alone.

Double your pleasure, double your fun

Day three double-dogsitting in Montreal, and I've got the sniffles. It's not so terrible, really. Eska is sitting at the foot of my bed for an uncustomary daytime lounge. She feels my pain, I think. If Bruno weren't so depressed about my parents being away on vacation, he'd be up here too. Wisely, he's chosen to take advantage of their absence and do his lounging on our white couch. He knows it's off-limits. He also knows he's too big for me to drag off of it without breaking an uncomfortable sweat.

Clever.

He makes it up to my room for visits when he detects, somehow, that I am talking to Brian on gchat. He gets terribly jealous or protective or something, and needs to make his presence felt. Eska is the same way, or was, in the brief period during which Brian was over at the apartment regularly, which would make sense: Eska is an only-dog-child and is accustomed to being the center of my attention. It's only normal that she would be territorial when other people were up in her grill, no matter how much she loved them.

Bruno is just some kind of crazy ESP guerilla dog. I'm surprised Fab ever made the cut.

Anyway, it's their fault if I'm sniffly. I took them out this morning, as usual, for their AM walk before it started to rain, confident that I had beat the ominous forecast. I hadn't. It started to come down just as Eska and I began our sprints across the community soccer field, Bruno following close behind with his deflated soccer ball, waiting for me to kick it out for him every now and then. I mean, I'm thankful that he cut the free-range time short: his spontaneous jump in the swamp which caps soccer-field time came much earlier than usual, and likely because he sensed that I was dying out there. He's such a good shoo. The rest of our walk was still 30 minutes long, though, or something like that, under what turned out to be more than just your run-of-the-mill drizzle.

Eska is sleeping peacefully: maybe she has the sniffles, too.

There has been much doggy-love here at the Zampini manor in the past three weeks or so. Both my shoos have been getting along. Eska is learning to share her toys nicely. Bruno is more patient with her eager teeth. Sometimes, we catch them sleeping so close to each other, it strikes a beautiful doggy chord in everyone's heart.

Two dogs are not unmanageable. It is a daily struggle reminding myself that they would be if I lived alone, in a small apartment, without a yard.

... Well would you look at that? ...

Uncle Army is having less of it than I am - not hard, considering how much of it I'm having. His niece ate his headphones and a raw burger he was about to barbecue yesterday: he was most unimpressed with her. What can I say? She doesn't like it when I leave her in favour of the bathroom or Fiona. She's a bit of a baby that way. Uncle Army has requested that I leave the manor and take my dog with me, but I am unprepared to deprive Bruno of his girl just yet: he loves her so much. You can tell.

Motherhood will be difficult, I told Bruno today, and it's true: how can I ever be absolutely certain I am showing both of my shoos the same amount of love and affection, while making sure I am attentive to all of their special needs?

Now imagine they were human.

Well, it might be easier if they were human, because they could at least tell me if I were doing it wrong. Right now, the only things I have to go by are the looks on their little doggy faces.

Dora is losing her shit.

What's nicest about double doggy duty, I guess, is the warmth. It's unseasonably (and unreasonably) cold in the True North, and naps would be long without my furry comforters.

Say it inna ear

Yesterday, Eska said it inna ear - while I was gone: she ate my headphones through and through.

Serves me right.

You're Fired

Today, I fired Eska.

I mean, I think I was justified: she is terrible at her job. She doesn't bark when strange people enter or exit the house. She kisses rather than hisses at delivery men she's never seen when they come and invade her space. She runs for cover (usually behind me) anytime she hears a loud noise or walks beside large, imposing machinery. She ineffectually chases mice when they crawl out of her food and onto my kitchen table. Actually. I mean, ok, she scares them back into their little mouse holes, but that doesn't help either one of us.

I gave her her pink slip today and wished her luck with her search. She really is the weakest link in this equation.

Free-range Existence

Eska and I have entered week 2 of free-range existence (ie, I am no longer crating her during the day in an attempt to see if a perceived increase in trust (mine) can lead to a reduction of excitability (hers). So far, not bad: yesterday, she only got at the potatoes, and not even, really -- she only pulled the bag out from under the counter and played with it a little bit. She didn't even BITE into any. Jeez.

This time last week (or a little earlier), I came home to ten pounds of flour scattered allllllll over my apartment; I'll take mangled potatoes.

She's a weird girl, really. The other day, she just dragged a bag of mine into her crate with her, for fun. She didn't even do anything to it (that I can notice) - I assume she just sat on it.

I mean, there's got to be something I'm missing. Flour, purse, potatoes. What's the missing link?