Pure Joy (7 page)

Minnie in her bed next to the “hot spot” on the floor (next to a dog statue she ignores)
Alessandro Calderano

The game of “fetch” makes no sense to Minnie. You throw her a toy, she grabs it, tosses it around, and starts to run back to you with it, and then you can see her think better of it, change her mind at the last minute, figure she’s not going to give you a toy she loves, and run away and hide it. She can play with her toys for hours. And she seems to be convinced that we are all trying to steal them, and she is not going to let that happen.

Similarly, she is convinced we are going to eat her kibble. Several times a day she fills her mouth with as many grains of kibble as she can stuff in it, and then goes somewhere to hide it. You can see plainly where the kibble is, although sometimes she’ll hide it under her bed. If she sees you watching her do it, she’ll hide it again. And then she gives us a suspicious look. Recently, she piled it on top of her igloo bed, saw that I had noticed it, and then went to get a doll and put it on top of the kibble to hide it better. To date, her suspicions are unfounded, and I have not eaten her kibble yet. But she still suspects I might. It really makes me laugh when I watch her
antics. She keeps busy for hours, and then collapses and goes to sleep. She is an endless source of amusement and joy. And it’s a lot more fun watching her than stressing over a rewrite or a slew of faxes to answer or any of life’s less fun events. It’s hard to be sad with a funny little being bouncing around, doing things that make you laugh. She is definitely the best therapy there is, which is why dogs make people so happy. Whoever comes to visit winds up laughing at her, and everyone in the house is in love with her. She is impossible to resist. And in Paris I can spend more time lying on the floor playing with her.

Her Paris wardrobe is also a lot jazzier than her clothes for San Francisco. (I dress better in Paris too and wear mostly jeans in San Francisco, because I go out more in Paris, so I get more dressed up.) I’ve discovered a few stores, and one in particular, that have incredibly silly but fun outfits for tiny dogs. Little sparkly sweaters, others with rhinestones on them, or heart designs, a pink snowsuit with a bunny on it (which she hates as much as the old one, this one even more so because it has a little hood). It is hysterically fun to dress her up, although she looks pained about it, an ordeal she must endure. The things I’ve found for her in Paris are so cute, although they potentially put me back in the “weird” category that my children warned me about and that I intended to avoid. I’ve
given up—she looks adorable in her cute sweaters and coats, even a gray sweater with a pink flower on it. And she has equally fancy leashes in pink, white, red, and black patent leather, with flowers on them, or rhinestones. I can’t help it, I have a ball dressing her up, and she’s not a bull mastiff, after all, she’s a two-pound teacup Chihuahua. One of my Paris friends said I should have called her Barbie Mouse since I love dressing her up. I recently got her a red wool coat with a black velvet collar that looks exactly like a coat my children had for Christmas when they were small.

Paris fashion: Minnie in style in her gray sweater with pink flower
Alessandro Calderano

There is also family history for dressing dogs. My kids loved Halloween and always planned their costumes for months. And they loved dressing their dogs in Halloween costumes too. One of them dressed their dog as a tiny bumblebee. Vanessa dressed her Yorkie one year as a French Maid. There were several “ballerinas” in tiny tutus. I think the prize of all time went to my son Maxx when he dressed Annabelle, his Boston bull, as Superwoman, in a Superman costume, cape and all, with a blond wig. Most pet stores carry costumes for dogs at Halloween, and they have bunny ears at Easter. I got Minnie tiny reindeer antlers for her first Christmas, but she hated them, so I didn’t make her wear them. And my daughter Sam recently gave Minnie a bumblebee costume and tiny witch hat and orange coat for Halloween!

A little off the subject, but I have to mention that the super grand costume prize went to Beatrix’s boyfriend, who made a costume that looked like her dog Jack, and he walked around the house dropping plastic “fleas” everywhere.

And others must fall prey equally to that indulgence of fashion for their dogs, since I saw a Great Dane in New York in a Burberry coat and an Hermès scarf. I know I could be doing something more intelligent with my time (and money), but I’m having fun. What’s the harm in that, especially if it makes me happy?

And not only am I happy, but so is Minnie. You can tell that she knows she is much loved. She is constantly ready to play and in good humor. She never looks sad or unhappy. She has a very good life and seems to enjoy every minute of it, with comfortable beds, a heap of toys, regular food, kind visitors (who sometimes bring her new toys), and an adoring owner. It’s an enviable life. And we improve each other’s lives. She could have wound up in a less loving home, and I could still be alone during the months I spend in Paris. And even though my griffs are loving dogs, they aren’t as playful or as affectionate as Minnie. We seem to be a perfect fit. And I do think there are good matches between owners and dogs. Some matches are not as easy and don’t work out as well. Dogs who need more attention than their owners have time to give become
lonely and depressed or resentful (like people). Some dogs live in homes where kids, or someone, mistreats them, which is unfortunate. Other dogs have been too badly abused previously to attach or even adjust. It takes wisdom, self-awareness, and a little bit of luck to make the right match.

And sadly, some dogs are just dogs. You can get a puppy who looks cute but grows up to have no personality and just turns out to be “a dog,” rather than someone special. I’ve had one dog like that, and one of my daughters had one too. A close friend had a dog that grew up to be very dull. It was named Alice. Some dogs just turn out to be Alice, the way some people turn out to be bores. Not everyone has a great personality, and not all dogs do either. It’s kind of disappointing when you discover you have one of those. It helps if they look like they have a sweet personality when you pick them. With people and animals, I am more seduced by personality than by looks. (As one friend said about the men she dated, she had a terrible weakness for beautiful, not-too-bright men. As she put it, when she finally moved on to more interesting, less handsome men, “Looks fade, but stupid is forever.” It seems to apply to dogs too.)

We’ve all heard it said that dogs resemble their owners, and I always wonder if that’s true. Minnie is amazingly good-natured, a little timorous and cautious at times. She likes to
play, she hates the fax machine, and she likes to wear cute clothes. (She’s gotten used to some of her outfits, or at least she tolerates them for me. We’ve compromised on some sweaters she doesn’t mind, in bright colors—purple, pink, red, orange.) So maybe we’re more alike than I realize. We both have delicate stomachs. But on the other hand, I don’t hide my kibble. At least not yet. I could do a lot worse than being compared to Minnie.

One slightly odd thing happened the first time Minnie went to her Paris vet. I noticed afterward on the form that in describing her, he had written down that she was a white and tan Chihuahua, which wasn’t accurate. She was snow white when I got her and when we arrived in Paris, so much so that while looking for a name for her, I had almost called her “Blanche Neige,” as I mentioned earlier. “Minnie Mouse” seemed cuter and suited her better. But she was certainly not white and tan. I figured that the vet was just distracted and made a mistake, which didn’t seem serious to me, so I didn’t bother to call back and correct it.

A week or so later, as she played in the kitchen, I noticed a small smudge on her back, the size of a thumbprint. She is so constantly being loved and cuddled that I thought maybe someone with dirty hands had picked her up when I wasn’t watching. I meant to wash off the spot but was busy and forgot
about it. A few days after that I noticed a second tiny smudge. Who was picking up Minnie with dirty hands when I wasn’t around? I washed the spots, and they didn’t come off, which was even more annoying—what did that person have on their hands when they picked her up?

And the next day I was really upset. There was a fine dusting of pale, pale beige spots on one hip—someone had obviously spilled café au lait on her (coffee with
lots
of milk, which the French often drink for breakfast). Who could be that careless around Minnie? I hoped the coffee hadn’t been hot when they spilled it, but she seemed perfectly happy. (And let’s face it, like kids, dogs never care how dirty they are. A little dirt never hurt anyone!) But it still bothered me that she was being handled with dirty hands, and now someone was spilling coffee with milk on her. I mentioned it to my assistant, who loves her and she loves him, and he had noticed the spots too. But since Minnie was hanging out in the kitchen, having something spill on her could happen. We were puzzled.

But the day after, the café au lait spots were darker, and there were more of them, and over the next few weeks, suddenly Miss Minnie had acquired a whole bunch of small beige spots, dusted across her side and part of her back. They still looked like pale coffee spots, but now we knew that they weren’t fingerprints or coffee drops, she actually had pale
beige spots. They seemed funny looking at first, but now we’re used to them. (I was highly insulted when a friend said jokingly, “You should have called her ‘Spot.’ ”) Over a period of several weeks, the spots came out and darkened a little, and they are indeed a kind of pale beige/tan color. She is still mostly white, but she does have these spots. The next time I saw the vet, he told me that white Chihuahuas almost always get those pale beige spots somewhere on their body, not all over, although they are invisible for the first few months. It explained his description of her as “white and tan.” And to his discerning experienced eye, he had seen the first hint of them long before I did. So Minnie does have a dusting of pale beige spots and is no longer pure white. She is just as cute, they are almost rose-colored in places and very pale. But it’s a good thing I didn’t name her Snow White, or I might have had to add “with spots.” Needless to say, I love her just as much with spots!

Thus far Minnie’s international life only includes Paris. Theoretically, to go there she needs detailed paperwork that we have to apply for in advance
every
time she travels and leaves the country. It’s a nuisance to redo it each time, but it can’t be avoided. Customs officials are supposed to look at her travel documents and health certificates when she enters France, and returns to the United States, and I carry them
diligently. But so far no one has ever looked at them in France, they just wave her through, and occasionally they look at her documents when we re-enter the States. But you always need the papers in case they want to see them.

The only problem I have had, and not a big one, has been with airport security in the United States. Each time they tell me to “strip” her, take off her collar, harness, leash, and all her clothes for a security check so they can “frisk” her. It always annoys me. Frightening-looking men saunter through security, and meanwhile they are frisking my trembling Chihuahua, who is terrified of them. And they actually do frisk her. Please. One of the security guards actually asked if she would “attack” them. Are you kidding? Being afraid of Minnie is like being afraid of a hamster—and in fact, the hamsters we had years ago were a lot fiercer than Minnie. But you have to follow the rules, and do as they ask, even if they want to frisk her.

If you travel, do
not
put your dog through the X-ray machine in its carrier on the moving belt! You don’t have to, and it would frighten your dog unnecessarily. You can carry a small dog through in your arms, and then “strip” her when they ask you to. (Her leash and collar or harness—safer for tiny dogs with delicate necks—set off the metal detector.)

Britain has always been more rigid about bringing dogs into the country. For years, they had a quarantine, requiring
you to leave your dog in a government kennel for six months, which kept most people from taking their dogs to England, unless they were moving there. (Elizabeth Taylor once chartered a boat to stay off-dock on the Thames, so she could bring her dogs into the country and not go through immigration or subject them to quarantine.) Recently, they lifted the quarantine but now require an aggressive worming process within twenty-four hours of entering the U.K., and a vet’s certificate saying the worming process was performed.

I recently passed up what sounded like a fun weekend in London with friends because I didn’t want to leave Minnie in Paris with other people, and when I checked out the worming for such a tiny dog, it was likely to make her sick for the whole duration of my stay in London. I didn’t want to put her through it, and make her sick for no reason, so I passed on the trip, and we had a nice weekend in Paris instead.

So England is not on Minnie’s travel map. Although the British love their dogs, they make it just too difficult to enter the country with one. I wasn’t going to make Minnie sick for my London weekend! So sometimes having a puppy or a dog can hamper your mobility, even for a weekend with friends close to where you live. I still think it’s worth it. And we’ve tackled no other foreign countries with her so far, just France, which is very easy, since the French are so hospitable to dogs.