When my younger daughter was an infant, she didn’t sleep. Not at night. Not at nap time. What she did was cry, especially in the evening, so I took it upon myself to diagnose her with colic. Thus, I had an explanation for why she cried and why there was nothing I could do to stop it.

The colic eventually passed, as did her habit of rising before the sun. She never took to napping, at least not until she went to daycare and was under somebody else’s watch. It took several years, but now she sleeps like a champ.

Over that long haul, I came to savor a good night’s sleep. And I’ve become adept at getting one.

But recently, Galen has started messing with my beauty rest.

When Galen was a puppy, Kevin and I let her hang out on our bed while we watched TV or read, but she slept in a pen in the corner of the bedroom. As she got older, she became less interested in the pen, so we took to bribing her with American cheese. One night, she refused the bribe. She looked at me, looked at the cheese, and didn’t move. I put the cheese under her nose so she could get a good whiff. Nothing. I picked her up, put her in the pen, gave her the cheese, and turned out the light.

Almost immediately, whining. Kevin and I ignored it. More whining. More ignoring. The whining got louder. Is a dog like a baby, we wondered? Should we let her whine it out? If we did, would she wake our daughters? How many nights would it take? Because we each had work the next day, we let Galen back onto the bed. We agreed to take a hard line over the weekend.

The weekend came and went.

Once Galen sensed she was on the bed to stay, she left the no-man’s land at the foot of the bed to nestle her fifty-eight pound frame up against Kevin. That proved problematic, because Kevin doesn’t sleep well. He tosses and turns and wakes during the night. Having nearly sixty pounds of dead weight inhibiting all that movement made his pursuit of zzz’s all the more challenging. He started threatening to put Galen back in the pen; she would whine, he said, but she would get over it.

I cringed. When we wanted our daughters to sleep through the night, we let them cry. But for some reason, I couldn’t do that to Galen.

Perhaps I should have.

A few weeks ago, Galen settled into a new night-time routine. She jumps off our bed at lights out and retreats to the family room to curl up in her crate. Then, around 4:40 a.m. – I think the delivery of our newspaper must wake her – she returns, lies next to me, and because I’m a side sleeper, she whacks me on the back with her paw. I give her head or belly a quick rub. When I stop, she whacks me again. And again. Until I pet her. If I stop, whack. This goes on until my alarm goes off.

If Galen persists, I may be inclined to do something I’ve repeatedly said I do not want to do: I might have to cancel the newspaper.

Some people remember their dreams; some don’t. I only remember my anxiety dreams, and I’ve come to believe that that’s because they’re the dreams I have most often. (That should tell you something about me.) Also, nine out of ten times, I have the same dream I’ve been having since the early 1990s, when I went to work for CNN. It unfolds like this:

I am in the Headline News newsroom, at a computer, writing a story – the story itself is never clear. A clock on the wall ticks down the minutes to show time. As it ticks, I type. The show starts; I type. The show ends; I’m still typing. Never do I morph into the Holly Hunter character in “Broadcast News,” who darts through the newsroom, videotape in hand, making her deadline. No, my deadline passes, and still, I type.

So I was surprised by the dream I had the other night. In it, my vacuum breaks, and I am left to pick up Galen’s hair, strand by strand. I’d clear a small section of the living room’s hardwood floor, only to find it fully covered moments later. This sequence repeats over and over and over…

In truth, a broken vacuum cleaner would be my nightmare. Galen sheds a lot, so I vacuum at least once a day. As much as I love my dog – and I love her a lot – I hate the sight of dog hair.  Kevin knows this about me, so he pointed out a story in Sunday’s New York Times, “Robot Vacuum Makes War on Cat Hair.” According to the article, the newest Roomba by iRobot “not only cleans floors as well as an upright or canister vacuum cleaner, it may actually do a superior job on pet hair.” Sold!

Galen
She eats, sleeps, plays, and sheds.

Or so I thought, until I got to this little bit of information: It sells for $700. The reporter said he’d have to go through “considerable financial contortions to justify the purchase.” So would I. And I would also have to consider Galen – she already hates the vacuum. Would she hate the Roomba – a flying saucer-shaped contraption that scoots across the floor in search of dust, dirt, and pet hair? Then again, should I even consider her feelings, when she is the reason I vacuum as often as I do?

By the end of the article, the reporter seemed to have financially contorted himself enough to make the purchase. I’m not there yet – though a few more of those dreams or a broken vacuum cleaner, and I just may be. But for now, I’ll pass on the Roomba by iRobot and stick with what I know best: iVacuum.

I have a lump in my throat – the kind that grows large when you’re holding back tears, when you know everything is okay, but still, your emotions get the best of you.

I used to get this feeling when I dropped off my now eight-year-old at daycare, back when she was two-years-old. On good days, she cried when I turned her over to her teachers. On bad days, she threw tantrums. I would kiss her, tell her I loved her, and leave. Then, as I’d drive to work, that familiar lump would form; my eyes would burn, but I didn’t cry.

You see, I knew my daughter was in good hands. I also knew – because her teachers told me repeatedly – that as soon as I was out the door, the crying ceased. Indeed, at day’s end, I always picked up a smiling, happy child.

With Galen, it’s different.

I dropped Galen at my mother’s house this morning, because my family is going away for the weekend. Galen loves my mother and loves swimming in her pool. But she doesn’t love being away from her family, and she’s not so enamored with my mom’s dog, Loki, who overwhelms her with his energy.

Today, Loki swatted Galen across the head with his right paw, before she crossed the threshold into the house. He was ready to play; she was not. She cowered, tail between her legs, right cheek brushing the welcome mat.

I stayed for just a few minutes, talking with my mom. Galen didn’t leave my side. She pawed my leg with her sharp little nails and gazed at me with her big brown eyes. “Please don’t leave me here,” they pleaded.

My mom is running a boarding house this weekend. In addition to Galen, she’s watching my sister’s dog, Bear; he’s there when we arrive. Bear is a thirteen-year-old black Lab, who lives his life like that tortoise from the classic children’s tale, The Tortoise and the Hare. Bear is a “slow and steady wins the race” kind of guy, which, despite the decade-large age gap between him and Galen, endears him to her. Galen’s tail wags when she sees Bear.

In the kitchen, I patted Galen’s head and gave her a kiss. I told her I loved her, walked out the door, got in my car. I’ll call my mother in a few hours to check on my little girl. But if the past is prologue, that lump will remain lodged in my throat until Monday, when I see Galen again.

My canine daughter is not as resilient as my human one.

Galen will likely spend her weekend hiding under the coffee table in my mother’s living room – I think she believes Loki doesn’t see her there. Perhaps Bear will lure her out, perhaps my mother will.

As for me, I will have a wonderful weekend with my family, but it will be tinged with the sadness of knowing that Galen isn’t happy, despite being well cared for (read: spoiled) by my mother.

It’s been said, “A mother is only as happy as her saddest child.” I don’t know who said it first, but I would like to believe she was including her canine kids in that sentiment.

Galen loves daycare. In fact, most mornings she stalks Kevin as he dresses, hoping he’ll take her there on his way to work. She doesn’t always get her wish. Good daycare – for dogs, as for children – isn’t cheap.

But this morning, Galen was in luck.

Kevin called me after dropping her off. “Let me tell you about our diva dog,” he said.

Apparently, Jen, who works the early shift, greeted Galen with, “Good morning, Miss Galen.” To Kevin, she said, “[Galen] will be getting her nails done at 2.”

“This is why I work and have nothing to show for it,” Kevin quipped.

(Disclaimer: Galen gets her nails clipped at daycare; she does not get manicures.)

Galen
the diva in her crate

Kevin and I decided long ago that Galen is a diva. She’s been known to take bones out of the mouths of Bear and Kuma, her canine cousins. Or show no interest in a toy until Loki, my mother’s dog, picks it up. She can also be downright discourteous. Galen will turn her head away from Loki when he lies down beside her or give him the cold shoulder when he tries to play with her – unless, of course, she’s in a playful mood.

Even with us, Galen can be a tad tempermental. One night she sleeps in bed with us, the next she chooses her crate over our company. Some evenings she wants to play fetch, some evenings she prefers a walk through the neighborhood. She enjoys chewing bones and bully sticks, but only in the backyard. She refuses bones offered to her in the house.

Did Galen come by her diva-ness naturally, or is this something we nurtured?

The debate whether nature or nurture – our genes or our environment – shape our personalities goes all the way back to Plato, who favored nature. Centuries later, John Locke argued individuals are born with a tabula rasa or clean slate and thus, are shaped by their experiences, nurture. Today, most people agree both nature and nurture shape us into who we are.

Researchers are now examining canine personality. And it’s no surprise, perhaps, that their findings reflect a mingling of nature and nurture here, too. In The Genius of Dogs, evolutionary anthropologist Brian Hare writes, “How we nurture a dog affects how they behave, but so does their nature.” In some breeds, their nature can be genetically traced back to their ancestors, the wolf.

In the end, I suppose it doesn’t matter whether Galen was born a diva or whether we coaxed the diva out of her. She is one, and we allow her to be.

We’ll have to be a bit more heavy-handed when it comes to how we raise our daughters.