Pure Joy Read online

  Other than that, all the kids and dogs got on very well. It made for an incredible scene when we left for the weekends in a stretch van with all nine kids, their backpacks, sports equipment, musical instruments, suitcases—and dogs. None of the dogs ever fought, and all were very sweet. The kids didn’t fight much either, which is one of my theories about big families. With so many siblings to choose from, the dynamics of big families are fairly easy, and maybe the dogs proved that as well.

  I took a slightly removed position about the dogs then. They were a sort of extension of the kids, and I had no particular preference or attachment to any of them. After all, they weren’t mine—they belonged to John and the kids. So I felt responsible for them in a caretaking role but possessive about none of them. I had never really fallen in love with a dog since my very first one when I was six. And maybe his untimely death made me loath to get too attached to another dog myself. I hadn’t really become a true dog person yet. (I should perhaps mention that John had also acquired a Vietnamese potbellied pig by then too, named Coco Chanel. We were promised that she would grow no larger than 35 pounds, but she made it to 250 pounds with ease. And let me tell you, that is one uncharming pet—their virtues are vastly overrated. The only amusing thing about her was that she had a vet named Dr. Bacon. Other than that, I did not enjoy her! So I am clearly not a pig person.)

  I was happily rolling along, driving car pool, going to soccer games and ballet classes with the kids, shepherding my kids and their dogs, and writing books at night. Life seemed pretty simple then (to me, at least—I was used to the circus of our daily existence), and to be serious for a moment, they were the happiest years of my life and I knew it even then. I loved my big family and everything that went with it!!

  One day John and I were browsing through an antique store, and the owner had a really sweet little dog, a small black miniature Brussels griffon. They have squashed-in faces and wiry coats and are really nice, very affectionate dogs. I admired the dog, said how cute she was, and we left. And the next day the antique dealer called me, sounding excited, and said, “She’s on her way to you, she’ll be here in two hours.” Who will be here in two hours? I wasn’t expecting anyone. He rapidly explained that his dog had a littermate, a sister, who had never found a home, came from Ohio, and he had had the breeder send her to me as a gift. What? Did I want a dog? No! Now what was I going to do? The dog was on a plane, on its way to me, and I thought it was an incredibly presumptuous thing to do. How could he send me a dog without even knowing if I wanted one? We already had a flock of dogs!

  I was furious, but feeling somehow responsible for this unwanted gift, I went to the airport and picked up the dog, determined to give it to someone else or send it back. I picked up the crate and looked inside. The dog I had admired was small, cuddly, perfect, even beautiful. And when I opened the crate, I found myself looking at a gargoyle with fur. The poor thing looked at me with worried eyes. She was much bigger than her sister and noticeably overweight, and she had a massive underbite that made her look like a bulldog. It was a classic case of the beautiful sister (I had met) and the ugly one (I had just received). I felt so sorry for the dog, and she arrived with the name of Greta. But she was even sweeter than her sister. She looked embarrassed to be there, like an uninvited guest.

  I took her home, and John laughed when he saw her and said, “Now there’s a face only a mother could love,” and I bristled. What a mean thing to say about my dog!! I had to take several of the kids to the orthodontist that afternoon, and took her with me, and the minute he saw her, the orthodontist looked at her with fascination. “Ah! She has a class-three malocclusion. If she were a human, I could fit her with braces for that.” Great.

  I don’t know what happened, but beautiful or not, I fell in love with Greta that day. I had managed to avoid dog-love for thirty years by then, even being married to one of the major dog lovers of our time and living surrounded by a gazillion dogs, but Greta had my heart instantly. And she turned out to be one of the greatest dogs I ever had, and surely one of the dogs I loved most. She had just a wonderful loving nature, despite her funny looks. And one of her other sisters came to me a year later, when her owner died, Cookie. But Greta remained my most beloved dog. She lived to be thirteen, and had a terrific life with us. She became the queen of the house—after all, she was Mom’s dog. So I became one of the dog lovers too.

  My beloved dog Greta (with the class-three malocclusion underbite)

  Danielle Steel

  But everyone knows that, just like people, not all dogs are perfect, and there have been a few lemons in our lives. Sweet Pea remains on the debatable list. And in the No Good Deed Goes Unpunished category, John’s mother passed away two years after we were married. She had had a standard dachshund named Trixie who was fourteen years old, barked incessantly, and was unfriendly, but John insisted we take her, and he said, “How much longer can she live at fourteen?” I decided he was right and agreed. The answer to that question was: nearly forever. She lived to be twenty-one and spent seven years barking in my house.

  And many years later, when I remarried, I gave my new husband the dog of his dreams: a Rhodesian ridgeback, a splendidly beautiful, graceful, but enormous creature. Ridgebacks are trained to chase lions in their native South Africa and run like the wind. But they are also one-man dogs, and this one had some sort of personality disorder, and like Sweet Pea, he did not like me, protective of his owner perhaps and possessive of him. The dog slept on our bed, and if I moved during the night, he emitted horrifying growls and bared his fangs at me. From a dog that weighed more than I did and was taller, these were not welcome signs of affection. I gave that dog a wide berth. And he once chased Victoria’s Chihuahua, whom I rescued in the nick of time. I was very sad to see the marriage end several years later, but utterly thrilled to see the ridgeback leave. He was one scary dog, although he adored his master. He convinced me I was not a “big dog” person.

  Samantha with Mia and Vanessa with Gidget, when both were puppies

  Danielle Steel family photo

  But on the whole, our experiences with dogs have been wonderful. And Greta had turned me into a dog lover again. Her eventual successor, Gracie, also a miniature Brussels griff, is just as sweet. It’s a breed that suited me perfectly for a long time. They’re lovely, easygoing, and sleep a lot, which works for me, since they sleep while I work. For twenty years, I couldn’t see myself with any other breed. And although I thought my kids’ dogs were very cute and had nice personalities, I couldn’t imagine having a dachshund—they’re too mischievous and bark a lot (which would drive me crazy while I write). Yorkies just didn’t seem like “me” and were a little too cute. I couldn’t even begin to imagine myself with a dog as small as a Chihuahua. My son’s miniature Boston bull was way too active for me, since I write for eighteen and twenty hours at a time when I’m in the heat of a book or facing a tight deadline. My writing schedule can be very intense at times and requires concentration. So I was sure that Brussels griffs were the breed for me, until I moved back to Paris part-time, and commuted to California and New York every three or four weeks. And after seven years of commuting, I decided that I wanted a dog I could take with me, so I could have a dog in Paris too, and my Brussels griffs were too heavy for the weight limit to take in the cabin on the plane.

  Suddenly I found myself looking longingly for a smaller dog to travel with me. I was lonely in Paris without one. But I couldn’t figure out a breed I wanted that was small enough. It was like dating as I read dog books, cruised pet stores, and visited breeders, hoping to find a dog I’d fall in love with. The search was on.

  Minnie as a tiny baby in the pet store the day I found her

  Victoria Traina

  TWO

  Looking for True Love (Again)

  Once I decided I missed the warmth and companionship of a dog to take with me on my travels, and on the plane to Paris, I began a serious search. To me a dog provides someone to talk to, play with, tak
e care of, and cuddle up with at night. Even if you have someone special in your life, a dog is a great companion. And watch out for men (or women) who don’t like dogs. If you do love animals, someone who can’t relate to yours may have an important piece missing that could matter to you. I’ve only had two men in my life who really disliked dogs, and I would have done better to avoid them both completely! I don’t know many men who love dogs as much as my husband John—and with the arrangement he made, where I got the back end and he got the front end, he had a pretty sweet deal. But John always had room in his heart for a lot of kids and dogs!

  I spent all my early years with pugs, and twenty adult years with Brussels griffs, and I just couldn’t imagine another breed that would suit me. But pugs weigh about twenty pounds, shed a lot, and can be smelly, and griffs are fourteen or fifteen pounds, and there is no negotiating with the international airlines about their twelve-pound limit for a dog in the cabin, so I had to find a smaller dog. But none of the tiny breeds appealed to me. I looked at miniature Pomeranians (ugh—yappy!!), Yorkies, some of whom are really cute and some not so cute. Miniature dachsies, too barky though very sweet. Maltese were too active. Chihuahuas didn’t appeal to me either, although two of my daughters have lovely ones, and they were the right size. And I looked at what I call the “poo” dogs, the currently fashionable/popular combos of cockapoo, yorkiepoo, maltipoo, and a whole bunch of other “poos” that seemed unpredictable to me as to how big they would be, and what traits they would have of either breed. And I didn’t want a French poodle, which seemed too fussy to me, and they bark a lot too. And all I needed was a dog that would bark for twelve hours straight on a plane. Two of my daughters fly for work constantly and take their dogs with them, a miniature Yorkie and a teacup Chihuahua, but I still wasn’t convinced.

  I looked at a Havanese, kind of a fluffball from Cuba, and several Japanese breeds, but I didn’t fall in love with them either. I even went completely off the deep end with a very unusual breed, a “hairless Chinese Crested,” which looks like some kind of child’s game where you put unrelated parts together. They have absolutely no fur, none, just skin with a lot of freckles, and at the end of their tail and on top of their head is a pouf of what looks like a bleached blond wig. It is the silliest-looking dog you’ve ever seen, and I loved the oddity of it, but it was so ugly that even I couldn’t make myself take that leap, and it was going to be too big for the airline weight limit. I’ve written about a hairless Chinese Crested in a book, and really liked the breed because it was so incongruous. But the reality was a little too extreme. On top of it they frequently lose their teeth, and their tongues hang out! I often write dogs into my books, and have some real fun with it. It can add a wonderful element to a book.

  A friend who went to a pet shop with me one day, in New York, was exasperated, and said “What are you looking for?” I said I didn’t know, but whatever it was, I would know it when I saw it. I knew I had to fall in love with it, because otherwise all the work, time, energy, and love I’d have to invest in it just wouldn’t be worth it. I tried to explain that to me, a dog, like a house or especially a person, has to be about “romance.” The friend rolled his eyes at me. And by then I figured that I probably wouldn’t get a dog to travel with me after all, since I had looked at dogs of every breed, and I was dogged (sorry!) about going to reliable pet stores and breeders I knew, and checking them out regularly for several months, but no dog had snagged my heart. Yet.

  In early November, going through New York, on my way from Paris to California, I visited a pet store where I’d bought dogs before. I looked all the dogs over and saw nothing I fell in love with and was about to leave, when one of the salesmen I know well looked at me conspiratorially and said, “Wait.” I stood there, wondering what he had in mind, nearly convinced that I’d be traveling alone forever, when he emerged with the tiniest dog imaginable in his arms. She was snow white, with enormous ears. She had ears and a face a bit like Yoda in Star Wars, big brown eyes, and a tiny milk-chocolate brown nose. She seemed very timid, but gazed straight at me. She weighed barely a pound, and fit in one of my hands (and I have very small hands, as I am a small person). He handed her to me, and she put her head on my shoulder and wrapped her mouse-sized paws around my neck. Bingo!!! It was love at first sight. She was a teacup Chihuahua, but small even for her breed. They said that she would weigh two or three pounds at most, full grown. She was eight weeks old. She was so tiny I was almost afraid to hold her—she looked more like a large mouse. Her ears were ridiculously oversize, and I kept reminding myself that I didn’t want a dog that small. What if someone stepped on her? Even my daughters’ Chihuahuas were hardier, this one was so tiny. I reasoned with myself as I stood there, telling myself that I needed something sturdier to travel with, that I never wanted a Chihuahua, that I would now officially become one of those weird old women with pink hair carrying a Chihuahua in a pink sweater. And as I told myself all the reasons why I didn’t/shouldn’t want her, I heard a voice say “I’ll take her.” Who said that? Omigod, I did! What had I just done? A Chihuahua? But you can’t argue with love once it hits.

  I had the same feeling I’d had about Greta all those years before, when she’d arrived uninvited from Ohio, with her funny face and class-three malocclusion underbite. I was in love, which was what I had said I wanted, regardless of breed. If I wanted to fall in love, this was it. And how could I fall in love with a dog? Don’t ask me how, but I did. My daughter Victoria was with me, who encouraged me to get her, and at least two of my other daughters had warned me that I didn’t need another dog and said it was a stupid idea. But stupid or not, I did it. Feeling dazed and a little giddy and actually guilty for being so self-indulgent, I handed them my credit card and bought her, as they told me she was too young to take with me, and I’d have to wait three or four more weeks to take her home.

  Victoria, who was my partner in crime that day, offered to bring her when she came home for Thanksgiving, and I then proceeded to pick out pink water bowls, two beds, a bunch of collars that looked small enough for a hamster, and the smallest toys they had, which were bigger than she was. I was besotted, and my children’s predictions were already coming true. I had owned her for five minutes, and I was already turning into one of those weird women I was terrified of becoming. I had become the owner of a tiny white long-haired teacup Chihuahua, and I had the frightening feeling that my life was about to change dramatically. And with the same kind of exultation mixed with terror you feel when you meet someone you are instantly crazy about, I went back to my hotel, knowing I had fallen in love with a one-pound dog. But who could resist those tiny mouse paws around my neck? For me, a puppy promises love and cozy moments, companionship and comfort, and that feeling that all is well in the world. In a way, it is a sign of hope.

  It was late afternoon when I left the tiny white puppy at the pet shop, and I had dinner plans that night, and I came back to the pet shop alone that evening before dinner to hold her again. And as we saw each other and she snuggled in my arms, I knew I was hooked. She didn’t even have a name yet. My daughter had suggested Yoda because she looked like him.

  I was thinking of Blanche Neige, which is Snow White in French. And when I told a friend about her, he suggested Minnie Mouse, which seemed perfect for her. Minnie. I loved it, almost as much as I loved the tiny white Chihuahua.

  Life suddenly seems so simple when you fall in love with a puppy. I smiled every time I thought of her. And no matter how crazy anyone thought I was to get her, I knew I had done the right thing. In an imperfect world full of heartbreak and disappointments, after looking high and low for her for several months, Minnie Mouse and I had found each other. It was exactly what I had hoped for when I started looking, it was true love. What more could I want?

  Baby Minnie comes home

  Alessandro Calderano

  THREE

  Minnie Comes Home

  Knowing that Minnie wouldn’t arrive in San Francisco for a few weeks, it took
me a while to confess to what I’d done. Puppy? What puppy? Where? We had taken a few snapshots of her with a cell phone, and I started showing them to friends. She looked so sweet nestled in my hand. I told my children about her, some of whom declared me officially insane. They reminded me that I had dogs in San Francisco—what was I doing buying another dog? Fortunately, Victoria kept assuring me I’d done the right thing and remained enthusiastic, which kept me from having second thoughts. I tried explaining to the others that she would travel with me, which made sense to one or two of them.

  But for the most part my kids shook their heads, and one earnestly said to me, “Now don’t go all weird on us.” But let’s be realistic. In today’s world having nine kids already makes me “different.” How many people do that nowadays? And if being crazy about a puppy would make me officially eccentric, did I really care? Probably not. Why not? I find that as time goes by, Why not? is often the right answer. Why not do something you love? Why not take a chance and do something new, or stick your neck out, or even fall in love with a puppy? Who was I hurting by stretching my heart to include one more tiny being? Was that really so terrible? I think not.