Lisa Geichman Prosek

Every morning after Romey, my fourteen-year-old toy poodle, has been pottied, fed, watered, medicated, and loved on, he and I go into the office and take our normal places on the loveseat. I set to work while Romey pretends to doze off.

He gives me ten minutes to get fully involved in reading or writing. Then he begins his campaign.

It starts with a quiet humph, which I often don’t perceive. After that, comes a bigger humph. Soon, Romey starts punctuating the humphs with little whispered barks. He slithers closer to me so he can humph while rolling around on his back and kicking me with his hind legs.

Because Romey went deaf last year I can’t use my voice to calm him down. So, I rub his pink belly. If I stop rubbing for three seconds, Romey starts his fit again. He cries in a whisper, then he cries out loud.

Next, Romey sits up so I can’t miss seeing him, lowers his head away from me, and gives me a side stare, with the whites of his eyes exposing all his disdain.

If this occurs before 10:45, he wants me to take him to get a drink of water. I don’t mind it. Romey broke his front legs as a puppy and often has to be carried. He certainly can’t jump off and onto furniture.

If the fit occurs after 10:45, Romey wants his lunch and won’t stop badgering me until he gets it.

Trying in vain for some peace once we hit the kitchen, I feed Romey first. Premium deli turkey, which he grudgingly shares with the five cats, keeping a strict accounting of who gets the most bites.

Or course, Mr. Generous whimpers as I eat my own lunch.

After a backyard potty run, we go back up to the office. In the heat of the afternoon, Romey drifts off to sleep for a few hours, and I can really get to work.

Just a few months ago, our days weren’t quite so peaceful.

After Romey’s brother, Ebie, died in December, my tiny boss lost interest in running my day…and in everything else.

He also suffered from insomnia. When he finally could fall to sleep, he ran and playfully yipped while dreaming. Soon, he jumped up awake and sat for almost a minute looking around for Ebie.

And then Romey sobbed.

Helpless to truly ease him, I cuddled my poor baby, knowing that soon the gut-wrenching process would repeat.

These days, when the little rat rolls around and kicks me, intruding on my work processes when I have deadlines and sometimes making me a nervous wreck, I think how I’d much rather cater to a boss who’s never satisfied than watch a heartbroken poodle mourn.