Published: May 28, 2008 06:45 pm            

HESS: Nature or nurture?

The other day as Henrietta was giving me the stare-down and I was going through the repertoire of things that she could possibly have wanted, I realized that she would likely not survive with another family. She has us (I like to say “us” but that really means “me”) so well trained and happy to comply with her every whim — even when I don’t know what it is — that she would be hard pressed to find a family who could read her mind as well as I do.

For instance, she doesn’t bark or ask to go out until I have gone through the other reasons for her staring at me. If I hit upon the magic phrase, “gotta do some outs?” then she will happily hop around and bark her way toward the door. But, the staring could also mean one of her toys is under the china cabinet and she can’t reach it. Staring also indicates the desire for food or another treat. It could also mean that one of the cats has taken up Henrietta’s spot in the patch of sunlight on the floor and I am expected to go and move said cat to a less sunny spot.

Henrietta does have her crate with an overstuffed pink princess bed which she never sleeps in anymore unless I drag the princess bed around the house with us so she can lounge in comfort. Typically, she spends her night underneath the blankets. She starts the night out at the end of the bed surrounded by her toys and bones. By midnight she is standing between my pillows offering up little whines which mean, “I need something and I would like you to deliver NOW.” If compliance isn’t quickly forthcoming, she digs at the covers; by that point I am awake enough to give into her demand. I obediently lift up the blankets so she can shimmy her way down until she is spooned up against my back, her dry, chapped paws digging into my neck.

For her it’s heaven, for me it’s not so bad until she decides that her head needs to be on the pillow. I am never sure how it happens but I inevitably wake up sharing the pillow with her furry face pressed against my face. If I am lucky I get the back of her head, if luck isn’t on my side I wake up to her muzzle mere inches from my face; I love her, but doggy breath in the middle of the night is not my most favorite thing.

So the big question is: Was Henrietta born high maintenance or has my willingness to give into her every little whine and whimper made her the diva poodle she is today?

Former Journal-Register staffer Robbi Hess is a writer who lives in Albion. She welcomes comments and can be reached at proedge@rochester.rr.com.

        

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