We got to the hotel in New York. My daughter had dropped off the playpen she had used at her apartment for Minnie, and I had brought a small bed for her in the suitcase. Minnie settled right in, and our stay in New York went fine. I had everything with me that she needed. And it was way too cold in New York in November to take her out. So the first and only problem I encountered was dressing her two days later to leave for Paris. I had bought several sweaters for her, and she had hand-me-downs from my daughters’ Chihuahuas, and I had also bought a little padded quilted coat, kind of like a snowsuit for really cold weather. My daughters had informed me that in freezing-cold weather, she needed to wear a sweater and the coat. I’ve never had a dog that small, and they are fragile in the cold. I dressed nine babies for the cold and even took them skiing, so I wasn’t going to be daunted by dressing a one-pound baby Chihuahua. I was a pro.
As it turned out, babies are easier to dress in winter clothes than baby Chihuahuas. I packed up all of Minnie’s gear to leave for the airport. I put a blanket in her carrying bag, a Wee-Wee Pad, and a couple of toys. I had food for the trip and two bowls, one each for food and water. I even carried a spare sweater and Baby Wipes in my purse. I got dressed and put the sweater and coat on Minnie and stood her up in the playpen (she was not looking too happy about her outfit). I turned around to put on my coat.
Then I turned around again to pick her up and put her in the carrying bag—and found Minnie lying on her back with her four legs straight up in the air. Oops. For a minute I thought she was sick, and then realized she had just rolled over. I stood her back up on her feet and watched her roll over and stick her feet up in the air again, like a beetle on its back. By then I noticed that she was glaring at me, and she made it clear. If I was going to put her in those miserable clothes, she was not going to stand up. Every time I stood her up, she rolled over on her back again. The wardrobe issue was not going well. (For a minute, I was reminded of my son Nick at three, when I put him in an adorable one-piece suit with a giraffe on it. He looked at it in horror and said, “You expect me to wear that?” Minnie appeared to feel the same way about her snowsuit, although it was very cute.) And I couldn’t take it off because I didn’t want her to freeze when we left the hotel, and it was bitter cold. I intended to take it off on the plane and not before.
Minnie in Paris for the first time
Alessandro Calderano
Minnie in the Paris apartment kitchen
Alessandro Calderano
I put her in the bag, and she was quiet on the way to the airport. I didn’t peek into the bag and assumed she was okay. And finally at the airport, I took a look, and she was lying flat on her face. Oops again. Another wardrobe crisis. I took a closer look and realized she had slipped both front paws into the snowsuit and was balancing on her nose. That’s what I mean about dogs making you laugh. She looked so funny, I had to chuckle. And we were clearly going to have some issues about her clothes. I took her snowsuit off on the plane and left her sweater on, and she looked relieved.
And once on the Air France flight, I got a taste of the differences between domestic travel and being on a French plane. The French are crazy about dogs. Americans love their dogs too, but they are much more rigid about regulations. On the flight from San Francisco to New York, I had been sternly warned by the most unfriendly flight attendant not to take her out of the bag under any circumstances. They never asked what was in it, if it was a puppy, and were not interested. Rules were rules. On the Air France flight, every single member of the crew who walked past us wanted to know what it was, could they see her, and asked me to open the bag, and then oohed and ahhed over her, wanted to pet her, and a couple of them winked at me and indicated that if I took her out during the flight, they would turn a blind eye, and did I want any treats for her? (No, I didn’t, since she was on a puppy diet.) But it was sweet how friendly they were. And they still are on every Air France flight we take. It’s the same in French restaurants. If you bring a dog, it is normal to set a place at the table for your dog and serve it a meal, which horrifies Americans. French dogs are treated like people!
Minnie slept on the flight, and when we got to the apartment in Paris, she discovered her second home. I had a playpen waiting for her there, and some supplies. I unpacked her toys, her beds, her blankets, and her bowls. (I’d brought her American puppy food so she didn’t have to change diet. I tried to think of everything.) She scampered around the kitchen and made herself at home. And my housekeeper fell in love with her on the spot. She was so unbelievably cute, and so happy to find her toys when she got there.
And in Paris, she barked for the first time. She had occasionally made tiny squeaking mouse noises but so far had never barked. I discovered rapidly that she hated the fax machine when a fax came in (and the ice maker). Otherwise, she rarely barks. She is as untechnological as I am. I try to restrain myself and generally don’t bark at the fax machine, although I’d like to when my office or attorneys send me thirty-page faxes. Minnie does the barking for me. The fax machine makes her irate. She’s happy and good-natured the rest of the time.
Minnie’s life in Paris is busier, or different, than her life in the States. In New York we stay in a hotel. In San Francisco, where my office is, if I have a busy day, she hangs out in the office in the daytime, and thinks everyone is there to keep her company, and then she comes back to me at the end of the day. That way I don’t have to leave her alone. And in Paris, I have a huge kitchen, which is centrally located, so I put her there in the daytime, and every time someone comes through the kitchen, she is delighted to see them. Wherever she is, she is thrilled to see people, and they are happy to see her. Everyone exclaims at her tiny size, and she has gotten brave and gregarious, loves to play, and runs all over the place. She seems to be convinced that whoever comes in is there to entertain and visit her. Although in the beginning she was very shy, she no longer is. She loves company!
She has favorite places to hang out, a warm spot on the floor where the heating passes through. I put a small bed for her there, a pink bed next to my desk where my computer is (which I only use for e-mail, not for writing), and I found an adorable red “house,” which is also a bed, that I use to store her toys. She loves the bed on the “hot” spot, and the one next to my desk. When I’m sending e-mails, she comes and lies in it, to be close to me. And her various options keep her busy.
First, she rummages in her heap of toys on the floor and puts several in one of her beds. Then she gets into the bed, plays with the toys for a while, and decides she wants some of them somewhere else. So one by one, she takes them to a different bed, piles them up, gets in, plays again, and then moves some of them to one of the other options. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but there is clearly a method to her madness. She reorganizes her toys several times a day. And she has favorites among her toys. I carry those in my hand luggage so they don’t get lost. (I know, it sounds silly, but old habits die hard.) And her very favorite toy is a little gray mouse she loves to play with and puts in her bed!
Minnie with her toys
Alessandro Calderano
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.
Pure Joy Page 4