Fifi and Me

Several times a year I pack up my travelpro carry-on and take the bus across town to 62nd and 3rd Avenue where I spend a week or two shacking up with Fifi. Fifi looks just like Trouble, Leona Helmsley's multi-million dollar heir, and I imagine she acts like Trouble, too. Some similarities are specific to breeding and others I'll chalk up to nurture. These 5lb milky white yappers are the cream of the elite upper eastside doggie daycares and are subject to all the spoiling that money can buy. And I absolutely adore her!

Fifi is hyper excitable when visitors or delivermen arrive so most people are shocked to be told she's as quiet as a lamb when it's just the two of us. All day she follows me from room to room and curls up at my side sleepily awaiting her next walk or meal. No demands, no barking. She just wants to be close to a breathing person. In this space she's completely content and I follow her lead. But when the doorbell rings Fifi jumps to attention and takes over the show. Her piercing yaps are impossible to ignore ... much worse than a baby's wail ... and the first order of business is to get her a treat to shut her up.

And therein lies the problem. Treats for barking. Like candy for tantrums. When you're the fill-in parental figure for a child you might have the power of reason but with a dog, forget it. You're a hostage to the treating for barking cycle. Maybe it's her way of pleading, "I want you all to myself." And it's working! I so appreciate the silence she gives me when we're home alone that I'm reluctant to order in food or a friend.

Walking Fifi offers none of the cardio benefits inherent in walking. She's a sniffer and she's stubborn. When she wants three more seconds to suss out all the scents in the trash can and I try to coax her onward she digs in her toes and forces me to either stretch my patience or to drag her on to the next lightpost where the sniffing continues. I don't think the fifteen-minute-block meets the standard for any exercise regime. Our twice-daily walks also take me into imposter mode. I don't belong in this socio-economic dog-o-sphere and I'm certain I'm going to be found out. Nonetheless, I put on my best just-rolled-out-of-bed face and stroll past the doorman and onto the townhouse lined street prepared to pick up Fifi's dainty poop. Now that's love!