It’s a tough time to be a dog. My mom Cathy is a dedicated WNBA fan. So she feels she ought to keep an eye on the college scene, because some of those players will be drafted into the league this May. She likes Candace Parker of Tennessee and Sylvia Fowles of LSU. She likes Rutgers because it’s, well, Rutgers.

UConn? Alas, everyone who comes after Diana Taurasi will suffer in comparison, if not in basketball, in personality. Cathy loves mavericks.

But mostly Cathy likes to watch an upset. She loves seeing a team come out of nowhere and take on the reigning champions. She’s not too optimistic this year…just hoping we don’t see another UConn vs Tennessee again.

See…even the dog learns more than she ever wanted to know.

Here’s the kicker. My mom Cathy didn’t start following sports until Christmas season of 1998. Cathy was not a tomboy. As a child, she avoided sports. She liked to dress up. She hid from her high school and college gym classes.

“In those days,” she recalls, “gym teachers were a bunch of sadists.”

She moved into her house in Florida and, while waiting for deliveries, began to watch the games. She also adopted Keesha, the First Dog. So in Spring 1999 she finally learned what a point guard was…and she took her first dog obedience class, too.

Thank goodness.

So my mom Cathy put me on a bland diet last week. I woke her up four times in one night, demanding to go out and “do my business,” as we say delicately in this house.

This time, Cathy followed the instructions of the vet’s assistant, Mallory. She measured my food carefully and doled out careful ratios of bland food to regular food. “Take a week or so to work back to normal,” Mallory said.

Cathy nodded solemnly. No more late night wake-ups.

I had other ideas. I know how to beat the system.

Sure enough, one day Mom forgot and left the cat food out. Whoosh! It waas gone.

“Oh no!” Mom yelled when she saw the empty dish. “You better not get sick again.”

No problem. I’m back to normal food again…and I came within two seconds of capturing a live muffin.

Last Saturday we went to the vet so I could get updated on my bortadella and giardia vaccines. I need them to get admitted to the Dog Lounge. They’re very strict.

We walked through Kinnear Park and I sniffed out all the crocus and jonquils, along with other scents I can’t discuss on a G-rated journal. Then we went to the dog park.

And on Sunday, my eye started looking a little watery. A greenish dot appeared in the corner. Not a big deal.

Cathy freaked.

“On no. Not another trip to the vet. Maybe it’ll go away…”

But it didn’t. So on Tuesday, bright and early, we traipsed over to the vet. My mom was busy so we hopped a cab. Our vet, Dr Clare Morris of UrbanVet, said, “Awfully red. We’d better do something about this.”

Oh no. That doesn’t sound like I’m getting a treat. Sure enough, I ended up with goop in my eyes.

“Gracie, you are driving me to bankruptcy,” Mom sighed, handing over her credit card one more time.

Actually, I’m just doing my job. If my mom didn’t spend her money on me, who knows what she would do? She’d start drinking. She could get into drugs. Who knows? Maybe she would even buy some new outfits at Nordstrom’s.

OK, my mom falls asleep after half a can of beer. She thinks drugs are boring. Don’t even mention clothes shopping.

But who knows? What else would Mom spend her money on? She hates traveling since 9/11.

So I’ll make sure she’s got a worthy cause. Me.

My mom Cathy wants to hold a teleseminar on Friday. That’s when she holds a class by phone, right from her own living room. This time she chose a popular topic: getting website visitors to hang around and become clients. Here’s the info:

http://www.makewebsiteprofits.com/conversions.html

I will be hiding in my crate. Too much excitement for a dog.

Happy Easter, Passover, Vernal Equinox or just Cold, Rainy Weekend in Seattle!

Good thing I don’t feel like going outdoors today. Cathy’s bed is nice and warm and I’m not leaving it till I absolutely have to. Cathy is going to the gym, as she always does on Sunday mornings, for the killer class taught by the Intrepid Russian Gymnast.

I encourage this obsession. An owner who’s in shape will take her dog for lots of walks.

I’m already in great shape…and this comforter is so soft…I’ll just dream about exercise today.

My mom Cathy just signed up for a training program on info products. For her first assignment, she is supposed to ask 10 people (family, friends and colleagues) to answer three questions to uncover her core gift

Cathy hates this stuff. She’d rather write 3 info products in a weekend than ask people to help her answer these questions. Most people she knows would rather be boiled in oil than do this. And it’s just south of woo-woo land.

But since I fit into the “family” category, I thought I’d (pardon the expression) dig into these questions.

Q1: In your opinion, what do you think I’m naturally good at doing?

A: From where I sit (currently under the coffee table), I think you’re naturally good at selecting dogs. First you chose Keesha from the Broward County Humane Society and then — seven years later at the opposite end of the country — you chose me on Petfinder.

OK, you didn’t really choose me. I chose you. And yeah, I know you thought about sending me back. But who’s kidding who? Once I started sitting in your lap on the bus, I knew: we were a team.

Q2. In the past, what have you been able to rely on me for?

Food. Dog beds (one in each room…and I’ll take the sofa anytime, thank you very much). More food. Walks. Excursions to the dog park. Food. Visits to the vet. Training (we could skip this one if you get busy). A kong to chew when I’m alone in my crate. Two cats to entertain me and keep me humble. My own corner of your sofa. My big bag of chewies.

Oh yeah, did I say food?

Q3. What do you feel are my top 3 strengths and talents?

Well, I hope you’re a good copywriter, because you couldn’t make a living with your domestic skills, like housekeeping or cooking. I do my best to help by nibbling stray crumbs here and there, but you’re a challenge.

OK, here goes:

Talent #1: You learn fast. When I first got here, you said, “No dogs on the furniture..and never on my bed!” So I slept in my crate for the first few months, slurping on my peanut butter kong.

But soon you caught on to the deal I offered: no chewing your socks if I could sit on the couch. And I wouldn’t eat the cat food if I could sleep on the foot of your bed.

Hey, a deal’s a deal. You immediately saw the win-win possibilities. I knew your MBA would count for something.

Talent #2: You’re highly intuitive.

When I sit next to the door, looking pathetic, you know I need to go out…right away. When I put my head in your lap and look soulfully into your eyes, you slam the laptop closed and grab the leash. You easily predict the future of your rug if you don’t get us out to the street.

Talent #3: You’re a shameless self-promoter.

Every time we ride the bus, you tell everyone in earshot our story. All it takes is one question: “What’s her name? How old? What kind?”

You don’t hesitate. “Gracie. Five. All-American Mutt but she thinks she’s a princess. Rescued from a humane society in Bellingham. No, not a shelter – foster home. Isn’t she well-behaved? I am so proud of her…”

It gets better. We walk to the Queen Anne branch of the library. Almost always some nice person is sitting on the steps. “What a good dog,” they say.

This is my cue. I turn my Cuteness level up to Maximum Strength, snuggling and prancing around.

After the unsuspecting victim has been totally won over, you say, “Gee, do you think you could keep an eye on her for just a minute while I run in and return a book? She doesn’t like to be tied up outside and she tries to run away…”

When you come back, everybody’s smiling. The mark even thanks you for the privilege of spending time with me. You may be a great salesperson, but I’m the champ when it comes to delivering customer service.

OK, I did my part with the questions. If you’re reading this blog and you know Cathy, please volunteer to answer the questions. She won’t want to ask. I just hope she keeps writing stuff that sells. Urban dogs don’t come cheap.

Contact info here: http://www.copy-cat-copywriting.com/contact.html
OR mailto:seattlecathy@gmail.com

Okay, I am sitting in our bedroom, happily chewing on my mom Cathy’s remaining wool hat. It’s kind of ugly (I chewed up all the cute ones) so she really needs to get rid of it. I am helping.

I hear muttering from the living room. Then I hear a crash. Uh oh. Time for me to take charge.

It seems Cathy is taking a break with a copy of the Oprah O magazine she found at the gym. She’s reading an article about how “older women” should dress to avoid looking old and dowdy.

“Look at this! No baggy sweats! What do I wear when it’s cold? And they’re so comfortable…oh no. This is NUTS No backpack?! Since when were backpacks for old people? I’ve been carrying a pack for…okay, many years. How can I haul around my laptop and my books? Ergonomically?

“And here’s a picture of a perfectly normal, wholesome woman wearing jeans and a nice turtleneck and sneakers. She looks happy and healthy. And this idiot says she should be wearing…heels? High heels? You gotta be kidding!

“And here’s the Big Lie. These days there’s no excuse, she says. Anyone can find comfortable high heels. Hah. My toes hurt just thinking about it.”

And that’s when a recent issue of O magazine goes crashing across the room.

I know just what to do. I go over to my mom and put my head in her lap. I look up beseechingly with The Look: “Mom, we have to go out. Now. Or there will be dire consequences.”

Mom falls for it. She puts on her best set of baggy sweats. She shoves her square-toed feet into comfy, broken-in Asics. She tosses bus fare into the pocket of her orange Nike jacket.

We head straight for the Belltown dog park, where my Mom enjoys talking to the regulars who come from diverse backgrounds: “Jail to Yale,” says Lindsay, the volunteer park steward. Nobody seems concerned about dressing to look young. For some of the regulars, looking alive and healthy is a major achievement, and one I’m happy to celebrate myself.

Twenty minutes later, Mom has forgotten all about the magazine. Now she’s muttering about why dogs have been banned from Macrina bakery so we can’t just pop in on the way home.

Did I tell you we live with two cats? My mom Cathy adores them but they’re totally useless.

Cat #1: Tiger is a fat old tabby. My mom adopted her in spring of 1994 – 14 years ago – from an SPCA shelter in Winnipeg. She thinks Tiger is descended from a long line of Saskatchewan barn cats — big tough tabbies.
Tiger has lived with Cathy in half a dozen cities. She’s flown twice by commercial airlines and survived countless car rides.

Tiger rules the household. Sometimes she goes into my crate and curls up to sleep. She hisses when I try to claim my territory and Cathy has to come mediate our dispute. I don’t mess with Tiger.

Tiger makes her wishes known 24/7. Since we moved here, she’s developed a raucous meow…it’s loud and ugly. I cover my ears. Cathy says, “I remember when I brought Tiger home from the shelter. She was full-grown, allegedly five years old, just separated from her sister. She tucked her head in my arm because she was so scared of everything. She was so quiet I thought I’d got a dud cat. But then, she found her voice…”

Did she ever.

The vet says Tiger seems amazingly healthy for a cat who’s probably 18 or 19 years old. Tiger eats voraciously and jumps up to the counter to eat her food, just like a much younger cat. So I guess I’ll be putting up with her for few more years…which is good, because my mom adores Tiger, yowling and all. She’ll be heartbroken when Tiger disappears for the Great Sandbox in the Sky.

As the resident dog, I do my part. I try to get the cats to play. I steal their catnip toys and chew them up. Do I get thanks? Hah. I get hisses, swots on my nose, and an icy glare from Tiger. Good thing I’ve got a thick skin…and first dibs on Cathy’s bed.

OK, I don’t stop with food. Cathy got some flats to wear when she absolutely, positively can’t wear sneakers. We can’t call them “dress shoes” because Cathy doesn’t do dress-up.

She hates to buy shoes because none of them fit. She’s right. Her feet are shaped more like shoe boxes than shoes.

So she buys whatever she can, spending as little as possible. She spends more on concert tickets, books and (thankfully) dog walking. She just begrudges paying for anything that causes pain and pinches her toes.

This last pair were pretty ugly. She was desperate and they fit, more or less. But she knew: they really should go.

I saw what was needed. On her own, she would never replace them. It was my duty to chew them up. Now she’s forced to buy new ones.

So…why did she yell, “Oh no, Gracie!” and shove me into my crate? When do I get a nice thank you biscuit?

When hell freezes over…or Cathy voluntarily dresses up when she doesn’t have to. Not tomorrow, for sure.

Look, I just want to help my mom, Cathy. She works hard, but she’s just a little misguided sometimes.

Take food. Cathy works out religiously. She loves to exercise…and she loves to eat. She knows: she really should be on a diet. Of course, Cathy doesn’t believe in diets. That’s too conventional. So she vows to eat healthy food in moderation.

Cathy just looked over my shoulder. She wants me to tell you that she’s really not that big. She’s the least photogenic person on the planet (I have to agree there). And in that photo where she’s speaking, she’s wearing a coat dress. Yes…it’s like a coat, but…it looked great in the room. Cathy got lots of compliments on her outfit. But let’s face it: in that picture, she resembles a small house on steroids.

I tried to help. A few weeks ago Cathy brought home a piece of coffee cake from Tully’s coffee shop. She likes a nice coffee break in the afternoon with just a small piece of something good. But who knows? I asked myself. Maybe she won’t stop with just one bite. Maybe she’ll eat the whole thing.

It’s up to me to save my owner from herself. Besides, she left her bag open. Gulp! No more temptation, Mom.

I did the same with the cheese last week: a nice chunk of cheddar Mom was saving for a special snack. Cheese is her weakness these days. So once again, it’s Gracie to the rescue – yum!

This time Mom freaked. She thought I would get sick. Visions of vet bills spun before her eyes. She got on the Internet (naturally) and found all sorts of scary warnings. She called the vet. “Gone for the day, leave a message.”

So she did the next best thing. She called her friend Bill, in New York. Bill is a real dog person who’s been advising my mom since the first day she brought Keesha home. I wish Mom would listen to Bill. He believes dogs should not get obedience training and he feeds his dogs muffins. Blueberry, preferably. His dogs are really spoiled.

“Gracie ate cheese!” she shrieked.

“So?”

“Won’t she get sick?”

After Bill wouldn’t stop laughing, Cathy hung up on him. She watched me closely for a couple of days, which was kind of fun.

Next I’m going to work on hamburger. Cathy shouldn’t eat it. I’ll help her resist.