At the time of this writing, Henrietta, the miniature poodle, had been on the earth for 417 days and in my life for 361, I can't remember what it was like before I brought her home. Well, actually, I do remember. I seem to recall not having to share my pillow with a whiskery face and not playing the "what am I whining for this time…" game (this game involves me carrying her around the house trying to figure out what it is she thinks she sees and thinks might belong to her — even when it typically doesn't.
I also don't remember what it was like to come home from work and not be greeted at the door by this whirling dervish who is full of yips, yaps and recrimination for having left her home alone. She launches herself into my arms, buries her face in my neck and lets loose with the most pathetic (and utterly endearing) moans and sighs. She is great at loading on the guilt!
Even as small as she was/is compared to Spenser (she weighed three pounds to his 120 when she came home) she rules the roost when it comes to his food dish and toys.
Henrietta came into my life at a time when my family was dealing with a very bad illness with my father. She was my comfort when I came home after a long day at the hospital and never seemed to care that I couldn't make room for words around the tears that seemed to be ever-present at that time. Thankfully, my father recovered, and my bond with Henrietta (or "The Hen" — you know, like "The Donald") was forged.