Pure Joy

by Danielle Steel

  “You know, the dog you all wanted me to find for Isabella. I found her an adorable Maltese.”

  “Are you insane?” my daughter asked me. “She’s too old for a dog, and she’s sick. Why would you get her a dog?” My daughter looked at me as if I’d lost my mind, and I wondered if I had.

  “You guys told me to get a dog for her, remember, after Thanksgiving dinner …”

  “We never told you that.” Had I imagined it? I went upstairs and found the others. It was unanimous. I was nuts. I had imagined it. And none of them would admit to thinking it was a brilliant idea a month before. (Kids are definitely more difficult than dogs.)

  “Listen, guys, you told me to find her a dog. I did. You can deny it if you want. Now we have this dog, and I want you to come with me when we give it to her.” By then I was sounding desperate, but not nearly as panicked as I felt. I’d been had. My sense of romance and fantasy had run away with me, and I had followed up on a suggestion none of them wanted to remember or to participate in now.

  “We can’t, we’re busy.” One of them had kickboxing, another had a Pilates class. My son had a big date with his girlfriend. The girls had manicures and pedicures scheduled. Not one of them would face the music with me, and I was stuck with this dog, and by then I was sure that Isabella would think I was even crazier than they did. I felt like a total idiot. I even called the breeder and warned her I might have to bring it back. I was sure the kids were right, and Isabella wouldn’t want this dog. I went downstairs and had a long conversation with the dog, apologizing in advance for what I was sure was going to be a short visit to Isabella when she would look at me in horror and give me back the dog. Whose idea was this anyway, and why had I fallen for it?

  I had gotten everything she could possibly need for the dog, gates, a playpen, blankets, Wee-Wee Pads, food, toys, bowls, collar, leash, just about everything but a driver’s license and its own car. The dog came fully loaded, and I drove to my friend’s house on Christmas Eve, with the dog looking mournfully at me. She looked like she was wondering how I’d gotten her into this, and I was asking myself the same thing. I was braced to have my loving, gracious friend throw the dog at me, or maybe slam the door in my face. Just as I had fantasized a happy reunion initially, I was imagining utter rejection on the drive to her house.

  We arrived at her very respectable building, where the doorman watched me unload the car, looking like a refugee, or at least like I was moving in, with my mountain of accessories for the dog. “Cute dog,” he said, and I was ready to give her to him. I was almost too chicken to go upstairs with all the stuff, and the dog. He helped me get it all up to her apartment, and I took the dog in my arms and rang the doorbell with literally trembling knees. I felt like a complete jerk. “Hi Isabella, my kids told me to get you a dog, and now they think it’s a terrible idea, so here it is.…” As I rang the bell, I could perfectly envision her refusing the dog and ushering me out. She had been a loving surrogate mother to me since I’d come to California thirty years before, as a young girl, long before I had my own family. Isabella had no children of her own and was a superior court judge until she retired. And with no children to visit her, it made the dog seem almost like a good idea. Almost, but not totally. I had no inkling how she’d react.

  She came to the door to put me out of my misery at last. I knew she was having chemotherapy that day, which she was taking in stride, and had insisted she would be up to a visit at the appointed time. It was Christmas Eve. I looked at her sheepishly when she opened the door and smiled at me. “What’s that?” she asked, as she saw the dog. I handed the little ball of white fluff to her and said, “She’s yours. Merry Christmas, Isabella, I got you a dog.” It seemed pointless to remind her that she’d said she wanted one, since my kids didn’t remember it either. Her eyes opened wide, and she took the dog from me immediately. She walked straight to a chair, put the dog on her lap, and began stroking her lovingly with a look of total bliss. The dog looked at me haughtily with an expression of “You can go now. I’m home.”

  My jaw nearly dropped. The dog never moved an inch off her lap, as Isabella beamed at me, and said, “I’m going to name her Trixie. That was the name of my first dog.” By then I was crying, I was so happy, and Isabella truly looked like a kid at Christmas. Everything about the scene was exactly what Christmas should be—it was all about a kid and getting a puppy from Santa. I took out a disposable camera I had thought to put in my pocket, and took a roll of pictures of Isabella and Trixie, and then showed her all the equipment I’d brought. She looked amazed and pleased as she held Trixie in her arms. By then Trixie was ignoring me completely. I had served my purpose, and as far as Trixie was concerned, I’d been dismissed. And although she usually liked long visits, Isabella then walked me to the door, wished me a Merry Christmas, kissed me, and said “Thank you for my dog.” And the next thing I knew, I was in the elevator laughing and smiling and crying. I had never seen anything so sweet in my life. I don’t think I’d ever seen Isabella so happy in thirty years. I drove home still smiling and was walking on air when I got home. She had just made Christmas for me. The crazy gift had been a smashing success. I told the kids about it, and they all shook their heads, unable to believe what I’d done.

  Isabella and Trixie: love at first sight

  Danielle Steel

  It really was one of my best Christmases, just remembering the look on Isabella’s face, and the dog looked as though she knew she belonged with her. And I expected to hear from Isabella the next day, letting me know about their first night together. But I didn’t hear a word. Three days went by, and I got nervous, and knowing how polite Isabella was, I had the sinking feeling that maybe it was too much for her, and she was too embarrassed to complain. Puppies take time to settle in sometimes and can be difficult at first. Finally, I couldn’t stand it, so I called. Isabella answered immediately, and I said I was wondering how things were going, and wanted to make sure she was okay and that the dog wasn’t too much for her. She sounded instantly panicked and said, “No, no, we’re fine. She’s perfect. I love my dog. Goodbye.” I wound up grinning all over again. Isabella was afraid that I was trying to take back her dog, which I surely wasn’t.

  A year and a half later, at the age of eighty-nine, Isabella watched a movie with her uncle in it. He was the famous actor Edward Everett Horton. Apparently she laughed a lot at the film, took a nap afterwards, and never woke up. I was deeply saddened at the loss of my friend but was so happy the dog had given her so much joy. And after they called to tell me, I wondered what would happen to Trixie and half-expected her family would ask me to take the dog back. Instead, they told me what a hard time they were having over Trixie, because everyone wanted the adorable dog Isabella had loved so much. Her friends and family were asking for her, and they finally gave Trixie to Isabella’s brother, and she moved on to yet another adoring family and remained in good hands. It was the perfect end of the story and was surely the happiest gift I had ever given anyone. When I think of Isabella now, I think of that incredible Christmas Eve. I still have some of the photographs (I framed most of them for Isabella), with Isabella beaming and Trixie happily sitting on her knees. It personified Christmas for me, and I will never forget that day, or how terrified I was!

  You would think that my jangled nerves over the gift to Isabella would have cured me, despite the happy end result, but it didn’t. When my son lost his beloved childhood dog, Annabelle, I waited seven months while he mourned her, and although he said he would never have another dog, it made my heart ache to know how much he missed her (she had gone everywhere with him for fourteen years. He had gotten her when he was ten). And I succumbed to my own instincts and got him a Boston bull puppy for his birthday, the sweetest little puppy. She was much smaller than Annabelle and looked very different, which I thought was a good thing, and the breed suited him so well, and the whole family said I was out of my mind. He was shocked when he first saw her and spent a tough night wrestling with his sense o
f loyalty to the dog he had loved so much and lost. I kept the puppy while he thought about it, and the next day he called to claim her, and they have been inseparable ever since. Her name is Nancy, and she is irresistible and so loving.

  And my last brave gift was this past Christmas. Once again I wrestled with the decision, but my ex-husband had been ill for many months, his ridgeback died a few years ago, and he had said repeatedly how much he missed having a dog. That’s a dangerous thing to say to me. I thought about it for several months and finally decided to do it. I got him a King Charles spaniel for Christmas, and once again with huge trepidation, I brought it to him. He’s a man, and when feeling well, he likes his freedom and to travel. I wasn’t at all sure how he would respond to the gift, but once again he fell in love immediately. The puppy climbed into his lap, and he tells me constantly how perfect Perky is and how much he loves him. God smiled on me again on that one! I have to stop doing these things—one of these days it could go wrong. But in all of these instances, it was the right thing to do, and I’m so glad I did.

  Maxx’s new Boston bull, Nancy, as a puppy

  Cassio Alves

  Perky, my gift to Tom

  Robin Reynolds

  Saukee, the Maltese I gave to my friend Ginny after the one she missed at auction

  Cassio Alves

  My other experience “giving away” dogs (or in this case selling them for charity) was at our benefit for the foundation honoring my son Nick. Sadly, we lost my son Nicky at nineteen, and in his honor established a foundation to fund organizations that provide treatment and therapy for people with mental illness. And every two years, we gave a gala benefit to raise money. We called it the Star Ball. The benefit was a major event to coordinate, with six hundred and fifty guests who paid a fortune for tickets. We had stars who attended, always an important musical act (Elton John the last time), dinner, dancing, and an auction (of jewels, trips, cars, and some very exciting items). We discovered at our last two benefits that a fantastic way to raise money was to auction off a dog. We got two puppies the first time, and they were such a huge hit that we planned to auction three the last time. Two small dogs, and a large one (two Maltese and a boxer). A model would walk the puppies around all evening before the auction, and people went crazy for them and paid high prices for them. (They paid as much as twenty thousand dollars, for the benefit of the foundation of course, but they got to go home with a puppy. And another foundation I know of has auctioned puppies for as much as thirty-five thousand dollars.) The bidding was heated for both Maltese, and a beloved friend of mine was disappointed when she missed out on the Maltese puppy … so you guessed it, I gave her a Maltese puppy a few months later. I hear about her all the time and how much she loves her (Saukee). I lucked out again! (And a few months ago, light-years after Saukee, I gave her a second dog, also a Maltese, which she named Winni.)

  And although the puppy auction was my favorite part of the benefit, it had its rocky moments. I loved watching the look of excitement on people’s faces as they bid on a puppy they had been flirting with all night. Husbands and wives argued over the big dog (a Lab the first time) versus the small (a Yorkie or Maltese puppy), and real dog lovers were willing to go to any lengths and price for the dog they wanted. (As a side note, the benefit also auctioned me off for dinner. And the dogs went for a higher price! Go figure!)

  We always chose the dogs carefully from reliable sources to make sure they were healthy. On the day of our last benefit, while I was checking the lighting, tables, sound, and room, hours before the ball, I got a frantic call from an assistant to tell me that the boxer we were auctioning off that night had diarrhea. “What should we do?” What should we do? Were they kidding? How did I know? Put a cork in her maybe? I said to call a vet, but I also made an immediate decision. I was not going to auction off a sick dog. It could have been nothing, or it could have been a sign that she was more seriously sick. I didn’t want to risk our thus-far-impeccable reputation on a sick dog. And we stuck to that decision. We didn’t auction off the boxer, waited a week to make sure she was fine, had her checked out by the vet again, and gave her to a local San Francisco chef we knew and loved who wanted her desperately, and he was thrilled. (He named her Nicky.) She is still his beloved dog today. So all’s well that ends well.

  Saukee and Winni

  Virginia Harris

  Ginny, with Saukee and Winni

  Reed Harris

  Nicky, the beautiful boxer we did not auction (because of tummy problems)

  Cassio Alves

  I don’t know if I’d recommend giving a dog as a gift, it’s a scary thing to do, and you have to know the recipient well, and how seriously they want a dog. But when it’s the right thing to do, there is nothing better and nothing sweeter than seeing the sheer joy on someone’s face when you give them a dog. I don’t know if I’ll ever do it again, but I cherish the memories of those I have given, and of how happy my friends and children were when they got them. It was really a blessing for them, and for me, and one that continues to bless for so many, many years.

  Maxx’s beloved Annabelle

  Cassio Alves

  SEVEN

  In Loving Memory

  There are endings and beginnings in life, new chapters, and old ones we remember fondly, with great tenderness. We don’t “replace” those we love, whether dogs or people—they remain part of our history. But new people and dogs come into our lives and add excitement and joy and help us live new chapters.

  For those who have loved a pet for many years, or even a shorter time, losing that pet can be incredibly sad. They fill a big space in our hearts, and leave a huge hole when they leave. And it’s not uncommon to see some brave, strong man cry over his lost dog. We all do.

  Dogs don’t live as long as people, so it is inevitable that no matter how much we love them, or how well we care for them, we will lose them one day. Some breeds are longer-lived than others (notably dachshunds and Chihuahuas, and some terriers), which is something to consider. Small dogs almost always outlive big ones. Few big dogs live longer than ten or twelve years, while small dogs can make it to fifteen or sixteen, or even nineteen or twenty. And a few breeds are “heartbreak dogs,” notoriously English bulldogs and Great Danes, who frequently die young.

  I lost my first two black miniature Brussels griffons, Greta and Cookie, at thirteen. They were littermates and died within a few short months of each other. And their third sister died within weeks of them. They just ran out of gas and died peacefully, Greta of a heart attack in her sleep, and Cookie also in her sleep after a short illness. Both were fine until shortly before they died, and then they went straight downhill. There was no decision for us to make. Nature decided it for us—they were gone, and much missed. Cookie put on a good show till the end, but once she got sick, she declined rapidly. At times she seemed just too sick to hold on to any longer. We had to give her water and hand-feed her, and she could barely move, after a stroke. The vet had told us to get ready and bring her in whenever we felt the time was right. I finally decided that it wasn’t fair to keep her going any longer, so I made the three-block drive to the vet with a heavy heart, planning to end her misery. She perked up the minute we got there, looked around with suspicion, and practically jumped out of my arms when the vet walked in. She hopped all over the place and danced around and would have tap-danced if she could, with a look that said, “Me? I’m fine! Don’t be ridiculous! Just kidding!” The vet said she appeared to be doing great and sent us home, and I felt like an idiot. She pulled the same stunt two more times. She had no intention of going out under anyone’s steam but her own and died quietly one night in her sleep. But she had no desire to let us make the decision for her!

  We also lost my mother-in-law’s dog, Trixie, who lived with us for seven years after my mother-in-law passed away. As I’ve said, she was a big brown standard dachshund and a particularly uncharming dog. And lived forever, until she died peacefully at twenty-one. We didn’t realize at the
time how our youngest daughter perceived that event. She was in nursery school, and at show and tell that day, she announced to her class that her daddy had put the dog in a box, buried it, and then it died. When I picked her up at school that afternoon, the teacher told me that I might want to straighten her out on the order of how things had happened, that the dog died and John buried her, not that she died as a result of being buried. It’s interesting how kids view things!

  My oldest daughter’s Norwich terrier, Jack, was also very long-lived (the one who loved bubble gum and candy). He lived to be about nineteen and finally just wore out. He spent his last few days with me, sleeping in my bed, so I could watch him closely, while my daughter went to work. He was so frail by then that she didn’t want to leave him alone, so I kept him with me. Jack and I had had a civil relationship for his nineteen years, but he was an independent sort, mostly attached to her, and he and I never really got closely connected. And as he lay in bed dozing on his last days, I saw him look up at me and panic. He looked like he was saying, “Oh sh--, this must be really bad if I’m with her!” Sadly, he lingered, and the vet finally said that it would be kinder to euthanize him. It’s a decision my daughter had to make with her next dog as well, and I ached for her over the agonizing choice she was faced with. We’ve never had to make that decision with any of our other dogs, and it was a very, very hard one to make. But sometimes it’s the right one. There are different ways to handle the process. There are vets who will come to your house now, to do it at home, if you prefer it. But any way or place you do it, it’s a tough decision. And I’ve just learned that there is hospice for dogs now too. I hope it never comes to that for any of your dogs, or mine.

  And even in sad moments, our family seems to create comic situations inadvertently. John and I promised to bury Jack in our garden, so my daughter didn’t have to deal with that sad task. John dug a hole, only to discover when we went to bury Jack in a wooden box that our very old houseman had filled the hole with water from the hose (nearly creating a mudslide into our neighbors’ garden), and there was no way to bury the dog, as the box floated on the water. John frantically bailed water before my daughter got home. We just got the job done when she appeared, while John stood there soaked, trying to look casual, and told her he’d been repairing a broken sprinkler. She never knew what had happened, but I still remember the hole filled with water and John frantically bailing, while we tried to bury her dog before she got home.