Can Jewish Moms make Poodle Pups Neurotic?

YES WE CAN!

Here's how toy Poodles are advertised: Put her in your purse and take her everywhere!

Well, not so fast. Aside from the fact, mentioned in an earlier post, that dogs are welcome almost nowhere in today's nanny state, the weather in the northeastern United States has made it virtually impossible for even Humans to go everywhere, never mind puppies in purses. It's just not that simple.

First of all, picture the landscape outside the back door: snow covered by ice, blown into an igloo by a wind storm, completely obscuring the furniture on the deck.

So I want to take her out, but there are so many obstacles. First I need her to release my Uggs from between her sharp little teeth. Then I need to put one on before she runs away with the other. She needs to wear her sweater, which she won't let me put over her front legs and head. And all that's before we venture through the door. (Full disclosure: complete failure so far. Sugar has never been outside except to go to the vet twice, in her carry-all; hasn't put paw to earth in her life.) This has to stop, I know. It's completely unacceptable, abnormal. And it is my fault.

But when I merely open the back door, Sugar begins to shake all over.

"Sugar," I beg, "don't you want to be like other dogs? To romp outdoors in the admittedly rock-hard snow?" Sugar scratches her hind parts as if I didn't just brush her, knowing Poodles get matted and must be brushed daily. Is she trying deliberately to make me look bad? "Sugar," I say sternly, "look at me." Sugar lowers her head to the floor ewe-like and mosies to her fleece-covered leopard-spotted bed adjacent to the space heater in the kitchen.

Well, I decided to take action. I hired a canine teacher, an expert. In one private lesson I learned that mom must have treats on her at all times for pup to know that when mom says "Come, Sugar," it means COME. One doesn't repeat the command. That's the most important lesson to teach a puppy, I found out. The "come" command (or request; Scott the trainer tells me it's more enlightened to say request these days, not that dogs are that sensitive to linguistic nuances, I imagine, but still we should be PC); the "come" command must always be followed by a food treat. And one must be unfailingly consistent. Scott advised me to get a kind of pet fanny-pack (which he wears) to carry around my pickled tongue and lox treats on my person, so there's never a time that I say, "Come, Sugar," and am unable to provide the food treat instantly. This is critical to conditioning dogs (and presumably getting Sugar outside someday).

Frankly, I've never been a big fan of fanny-packs. And I didn't see why I should invest in that kind of accessory when I already have about six dinner bags with long straps that I rarely use anymore. One of them is quite lovely, a Valentino bag, gold with a rhinestone logo fastening, that my daughter abjures and I couldn't sell on Ebay. So I sling that over my three layers of frigid weather clothing and wear it around the house. This way, Sugar knows that whenever I say, "Come, Sugar," she will be appropriately and consistently rewarded. And do you know what? It works. Sugar's never missed her cue. Not till today, when I cracked the back door open a smidgen.

It was sunny, strangely. Freezing but sunny. I dispensed with the outdoor gear, no boots, no sweater. Put some deli roast beef (medium rare) into my Valentino bag, opened the door, backed up as far as the gas grill and said, "Come, Sugar." I put on my merriest voice, as they tell you to do in the books. I knew not to repeat myself. Just held a morsel of beef on my palm and waited. I knew that Sugar knew. Sugar knew that I knew that Sugar knew. It was a stand-off. It was cold. I was outside and Sugar was in.

What to do? Give up all the gains and repeat the command? I mean the request? No way. The trainer costs big bucks. I inched closer to Sugar who stood stoically in the doorway. I, on hands and knees, on the creaking, frozen deck boards, beef on palm, waited for Sugar to comply. Sugar bent down too. Put her nose on the threshold. "Good girl!" I coaxed. We were nose to beef; my hind parts exposed to the wind, my Valentino bag dragging on the salt pellets.

The elements have a way of leveling stations in life. I was cold, Sugar, not so much. I wanted in, more than I wanted to win. Sugar's no dope. She held her ground.

I repeated the command, lame Human that I am, as if she wouldn't perceive my weakness.

"Please, Sugar," I said. "I'm begging you to eat this piece of meat. We can call it a draw. I don't care who's boss. Even though my being boss is for your own good, and you ought to remember that it's not for myself that I want you to go outside, I can live without it..." By the time I'd rationalized the whole thing to her she'd flicked out her tiny tongue, which has the consistency of wet velvet, swallowed the roast beef and curled up in her fleece bed. I, meanwhile, was trying to unravel my contorted body while figuring out a way to explain it all to Scott next Tuesday.

Lesson learned: between mothers and daughters it's always complicated. Do we need a trainer or a therapist? Suggestions solicited.