Mommywood by Tori Spelling Page B

―Mimi died about fifteen minutes ago. I started crying right there on the steps, saying, ―No! Mimi was my baby. My life. My everything. It‘s true, Mimi was raised as a baby, not a dog.
    I came downstairs, memories of Mimi flooding my mind. I remembered her sitting in a makeup chair at So NoTORIous, eating a bacon and egg breakfast burrito every morning, living the life. I thought about the time Dean and I brought her to a bar and she hung out on a bar stool for hours, just happy to be with me. (She did poop behind the counter. It was a bar. Things happen.) I thought about the time I brought Mimi to the Malibu Country Mart in a bikini. A man saw her and said, ―That‘s disgusting.
    I said, ―What?
    He said, ―You put a dog in a bathing suit. You think she likes that?
    I said, ―Of course! She‘s in Malibu. Mimi absolutely liked to be dressed in a style appropriate to the situation.
    Oh, for so long I‘d brought Mimi everywhere with me. She was my best companion. I loved her.
    All that was true, but I also felt bad about how I‘d treated Mimi in her final year, after Liam was born. I know it‘s normal to pay less attention to a beloved pet when you‘re pregnant, then taking care of a baby, then doing both at the same time, but I still regret it. I didn‘t dress her up as frequently. Because of her hips, she could only walk on carpet. When I passed by her little dog bed, she‘d whine. I always stopped to pet her, but I wouldn‘t pick her up and carry her everywhere I went the way I once did. Mimi was by all standards a well-cared-for dog. Our housekeeper Isabel was devoted to her. She walked Mimi and fed her and spent time with her. Still, I wish I‘d found a way to give Mimi ten minutes of my complete attention every day. So little time, yet it would have meant so much to her.
    Downstairs, on the sofa next to Mimi‘s still-warm body, I started to melt down. When Nanny died, I wished I‘d called her back and seen her more. I told her that in the last phone conversation we had, and she said, ―It‘s okay. Just remember to call your dad. It makes him sad when you don‘t call. Nanny gave me wisdom that I could use, right then. But when my father died I had the same regret. I hadn‘t seen him for nine months. I let my discomfort with my mother overshadow all the years I‘d had with him, years that meant so much to me. The excuse that I didn‘t feel welcome only goes so far. I could have barged in and said, ―He‘s my dad. I want to see him. I don‘t care if I‘m not welcome here; I want to see him. I‘d been given these two major opportunities to learn from my mistakes, but I‘d gone ahead and repeated this mistake for a third time. Not holding Mimi for ten minutes a day was equivalent—on a dog level—to not calling Nanny or my father. I felt extreme guilt. I don‘t stay in touch with the people (and in this case, dog) I love most in the world, and then they die. I could have done more, I should have done more, and now it was too late.
    Mimi was a Hollywood star, and she deserved a Hollywood funeral. I know what you‘re thinking: a memorial for a dog?—
    must be just another excuse for Tori to host a theme party. But the truth is that I was dreading the memorial. I don‘t love dealing with feelings; part of me just wanted to move on. Mimi was gone. It was time to let go. Then I thought about how much Mimi loved attention, parties, and publicity. She was such a grand dame. I knew she would have wanted a big party with crowds of people paying their respects. And I knew there were many people who needed a place and a community of fellow mourners to grieve their loss. If my dog Ferris passed away, I wouldn‘t think of throwing a memorial party. That‘s not his style. Ferris would be embarrassed at all the fuss. But Mimi—
    Mimi had to go out in style.
    Okay, I‘ll admit it: once I was committed to hosting such an event, my party-planning passion kicked in. Mimi‘s memorial took place at a Zen