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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.