Welcome Home, Danielle Steele-Gable

Four years ago when I wanted a dog, everyone told me to get a tiny dog, a toy breed, that I could carry around with me.

I adopted a Boxer-Bulldog-Pit Bull mix who had been abused and was scared to go up stairs.

Four months ago when I started wanting another dog, people told me not to get a toy dog but that big dogs were better, less yippy and better natured.

I ended up with a purebred Chihuahua who is also scared to go up stairs.

What can I say? The heart wants what the heart wants.

Although I have to admit, I'm much happier carrying a 10 pound dog up the stairs than I was carrying a 55 pound dog up the stairs.

I’ve over-thought this and under-thought this, and I write this with 10 pounds of sleeping Chihuahua snoring in my lap.

Yep, there’s one more beast to snore in my house.

I tried not to get attached. I really did. I thought about how it would look for a young, single girl to have a Chihuahua. Would that be too Legally Blonde? Would this addition make my life more chaotic? Would I be able to handle two dogs? Then something clicked around Saturday afternoon. Are you ready for this? It’s a great life lesson:

This isn’t about me.

I was talking to my Daddy (where I get my love of all things stray) and he brought up the most valid argument I’ve heard in a while.

“Does the puppy need a home?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you have a home?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes.”

“Then it looks like you have another puppy.”

That was it. I do have another puppy. I had already filled out the adoption paperwork by Friday afternoon—just in case.

Here’s a little background on Danielle Steele:

She’s 10 pounds. That’s probably a little more than she really is, because I weighed with her in my arms. Instead of believing I gained two or three pounds, I’m going to say she weighs 10 pounds and not 7 or 8. OK? OK.

I was told that her owners in Lawrenceville turned her into a high kill shelter because they wanted a new puppy. Someone, I forgot who, told me they wanted her to be euthanized. That is sick.

On Friday I went to get her. I put her in my car where she sat for three minutes looking at me in the front seat before climbing over the cup holder, crawling in my lap and falling asleep.

On Friday afternoon, she sat in my lap while I Patched.

On Saturday, her and Daisy figured out that if she stands between Daisy’s front legs when they want a treat that I am 100 percent likely to give in.

Fabulous, they’re ganging up on me already.

On Saturday evening, we learned that French fries from McDonalds are like Chihuahua crack. She will sit for a French fry, but not for a puppy treat.

And, on Saturday night, her and Daisy played for the first time, sealing her fate as a Gable.

Like there was ever any doubt.

She’s got a little ghetto booty. We Gables have been known to have a little junk in the trunk, too.

All she wants to do is sleep in your lap. When you hold her like a baby, she throws that little head back with her little mouth open and starts snoring.

Snoring puppies is my biggest weakness.

And then, on Saturday night, I got all the puppies tucked into bed. I got everyone fed, calm, warm, sufficiently snuggled, and I fell into bed exhausted.

The thing is: I don’t remember being happier.

It’s a little thing, adopting a dog.

I failed miserably at fostering. You’re not supposed to keep it. Can someone make sure I never foster kids?

But tonight, there is one less stray animal. There is one less animal being put to sleep. There is one more spot open in shelters, foster homes and boarding.

And tonight, there is one very warm, very content, very peaceful puppy asleep in my lap.

Life is good.