Uh-oh. My mom Cathy usually fast-forwards through the television commercials.

This time she didn’t pull the trigger fast enough and we caught a commercial for (what else) Fancy Feast Cat Food.

This well-regarded company has come out with a new flavor — Chicken Tuscany.

Tuscany? Gimme a break. Does Fancy Feast really add these subtle flavorings and by the way, who’s doing the taste testing? How do we know cats share human tastes?

And where is the canine equivalent of Fancy Feast? Imagine a commercial with one of those toy breeds, featuring some gourmet dinner served in a designer dish.

Let’s get real. Feature a mixed breed adopted dog like me, eating a delicious bowl of crunchies following a hard day’s nap. A hungry dog doesn’t care about the dish and won’t notice the subtlety of the flavors. We’re not finicky like those cats. I won’t even tell you what I eat in the dog park.

But if push comes to shove, I won’t turn down a delicately flavored dish of Burgndy beef…heavy on the beef, please, with a couple of peanut butter treats for dessert.

Yesterday evening my mom Cathy decided we should go to the Folk Festival for my evening walk. We’re just ten minutes away, by foot and paw.

“We should take advantage of Seattle,” Cathy said.

Good! I love festivals:

• Lots and lots of people (so I get tons of attention – one total stranger gave me a full-body massage)
• Lots of food on the ground so I can nibble my way through the park
• It’s easy to steal food from somebody who’s balancing a paper plate and a drink on the grass
• Lots of dogs (so I can jump up and say hello).

Mom hates festivals because

• Lots and lots of people (she gets claustrophobic in crowds)
• Lots of food on the ground (her arm hurts from pulling me away from a limitless supply of snacks).
• No place to eat (balancing a dripping plate while sitting on the itchy grass isn’t her idea of a dream meal)
• Lots of dogs (because most of them don’t want to play and they get nervous when I jump up to greet them)

“Well, let’s check out the music,” Mom said bravely, steering us to one of the stages.

Alas, she concluded, Arlo Guthrie is the only folk singer she wants to hear these days, preferably from a comfy seat in Benaroya Hall.

Good grief. I’m getting a fan club. Groupies. Here’s Nuz, a cat who owns the Dunn family, who recently sent me a comment. A dog with a cat fan club? Good thing my pals at the park won’t see it.

Did you see the latest dog news? Some idiot decided to clone a dog named Missy.

OK, Missy is adorable. Her clones seem to have the same delightful personality. But who needs it?

My nerdy mom, Cathy, said, “Gee, Gracie, I could have cloned Keesha. The perfect dog.” She looks at me sternly. “Keesha never, ever chewed. I could leave her in a room full of socks and woolly hats and nothing would be touched.”

Yeah, right. But she has selective memory syndrome. She forgets that Keesha terrorized the cats and barked every time Cathy came home.

But I wonder: if cloning were available and affordable, would I be here, sleeping peacefully on her couch after yesterday’s 2-hour run along the shores of Lake Washington, with a handful of other dogs and my wonderful Aunt Sara? Would I be enjoying nights on Cathy’s bed, gourmet treats and the joys of torturing our feline housemates?

Would Cathy even be writing this blog? Would she have found another Canine Urban Princess – a CUPPIE – whose thoughts were as newsworthy as mine?

And where would I be now…hanging out in a foster home, waiting for someone to adopt an “older” dog?

So who needs clones? Just go find a rescue group and adopt a dog. My foster mom told Cathy all about me…well, almost. My foster mom said, “Gracie likes to sit on her cushion and chew on her chew toys.” True. But she didn’t add that I also enjoy chewing socks, hats and even an occasional book, business card or even a bank statement for dessert.

So I’m glad Cathy had to go find a new dog instead of cloning her old one. Anyway, she says, accepting the inevitable: “Who’s going to treat all their dogs the same? Even if I’d cloned Keesha, I’d probably be a different owner. I always said I’d never let a dog sleep on my couch.”

Yeah, right.

When a Canine Urban Princess (a CUPPIE) gets tired, she retreats to her own private castle. Mine looks like an airline crate on the outside.

I inherited my crate from Keesha, Cathy’s first dog.

When Cathy adopted Keesha, about 10 years ago, she dreaded the idea of a crate. “Jail for dogs,” she shuddered.

But Keesha tortured the cats every time Cathy went out. One day Keesha tore a hole in a neighbor’s screen door, thinking the kindly neighbor was dog-napping instead of dog-sitting. Cathy immediately invested in a queen-sized crate. Keesha’s whole personality changed — for the better. And Cathy became a convert.

So when I arrived, I spent a lot of time in the crate I inherited from Keesha. Thank goodness! I had time to enjoy my own space while I adjusted to my new home and family…not to mention chewing on a rubber toy filled with royal peanut butter.

My crate has become my castle. I retreat to my castle when Cathy goes out, when I’m feeling a little under the weather or when we get visitors who operate noisy machines like vacuum cleaners and rug shampooers.
I sleep on my royal blanket and dream of a world with a dog park on every corner.

Saturday (yesterday) was supposed to be a one-day heat wave. So my mom got up at the crack of dawn (ouch) and we ambled off to the dog park. I made some new friends and played for almost 40 minutes.

My mom was enjoying herself, talking to a whole new crowd. She tells everyone she used to be shy. Hah.

My tongue was hanging out and I couldn’t wait to get home to my castle. From the outside my castle looks like an ordinary large-size dog crate, but it’s my inner sanctum and private retreat. I love it…especially my kong toy, which smells like peanut butter and gives me hours of blissful chewing.

Being a CUPPIE -a Canine Urban Princess – can be tough. Whenever my mom Cathy gets frustrated with anything, she takes me out for a walk and she gets frustrated a lot these days. I have to rouse myself from my cushion just because she needs a break.

And then whenever she meets somebody, I have to go along so Cathy can show me off. On Tuesday she decided to meet her friend, my Uncle Lance (he’s big into privacy so she can’t use his real name…gimme a break). My job was to give Uncle Lance a canine experience, since he lives in a no-dog apartment building. (Shouldn’t species discrimination be illegal?) I had to let him hold my leash and deal with all the people who wallked by and said, “Ooh, she’s so cute.”

We ended up walking over a mile. I voted for the bus but Cathy decided we need the exercise. Hah.

And then yesterday, my Aunt Sara took me for my weekly outing to Magnuson Park. I ran and ran. I played with Bailey, Violet and all my other dog friends.

My mom should be exhausted too. When her Wednesday evening class was cancelled at the gym, she booked a session with the trainer so she can work the machines. She got into some new muscle groups, she moaned as she curled up on the couch.

But no. “After today’s teleseminar,” she said to me, “we should enjoy this beautiful sunny weather.”

Uh oh. My royal calendar had marked the afternoon for a Long Hard Nap.

Being a Princess means being on call 24/7. Maybe somewhere there’s a Canine Urban Queen who gets to say, “No thank you.”

Me? I can’t even get into my own crate. Tiger the tabby cat has invaded my territory. She may be over 90 in human years but her strong right paw still packs a mean punch across my nose.

My mom Cathy never identified as a mom till she got a dog. But when she adopted me, she had to find a way to introduce herself when she called the dog lounge, the groomer and all the other handlers we Canine Urban Princesses (CUPPIES) require.

She tried saying, “I’m Gracie’s owner,” but she felt that didn’t do justice to our relationship. Besides, she has a tendency to call the Day Care and Boarding staff to ask, “How’s Gracie doing?” Even Cathy had to admit she was sounding more like a mom than an owner.

So she gave in and began identifying herself as Gracie’s mom. I knew it.

To be fair, Cathy is one of the least maternal people on the planet, male or female. She never adopts kittens or puppies. She never talks baby talk. She expects me to hold up my share of responsibilities, which are always under negotiation.

Cathy can’t even talk intelligently to anyone under 18. “How’s school” is not a great way to bond with a teen-ager.

So she gets irritated with all those books, articles and TV shows featuring white-haired women who become nurturing grandparent types in their later years. She’s not into volunteer work. She wants to keep earning money till the day she dies and she’ll donate to charities so those who are truly maternal can care for others — properly.

“You never see a 70-something woman pecking a keyboard and muttering about her affiliate programs,” she says. “They’re never reading sales reports or testimonials from satisfied clients. They’re always holding children or doing something for others.”

If you want to see my mom in a major freak-out, tell her about the retired people who go on to become greeters at Wal-Mart. She hates those stories.

“So after a life of growth, a graduate education and tons of experience, I’m supposed to look forward to serving burgers at McDonalds or opening doors for people who live my former life? Hah. I’d rather be rewarded for my work and I’d rather do real work. Where are those role models?”

Well, as the canine in residence, my job is to get her as close to a maternal experience as she’ll have in this lifetime. Alas, due to my extensive fan club, I’m often more of a fashion accessory.

“Like living with Paris Hilton,” Cathy sighs. “She has her adoring fans. I just make sure she’s there to greet them.”

At least I keep her feeling young, as she chases me around the dog park and makes sure I get all my walks. As her friend Bill reminds her via phone, “If you didn’t have a dog, you’d be just another stereotype: a single woman with a couple of cats.”

Bill knows how to push her buttons. Cathy pushes hers on the cell phone, initiating a major disconnect.

I think it’s time for another mega-nap. As a midlife dog — I’ll be 6 in October — I embrace the stereotypes. Let sleeping dogs lie. And around this house, I’m usually happy to be seen as a sleeping dog.

Yesterday my mom Cathy dropped me off in the Dog Lounge while she ran a couple of errands. Yaay! I played happily for a few hours, graciously accepting adoration from the staff. They know a CUPPIE when they see one (Canine Urban Princess, if you haven’t read the earlier posts).

The weather was cold and Cathy didn’t feel like hanging around the dog park. “At this rate we’ll be wearing our parkas to the Fourth of July celebration,” she muttered.

She exaggerates. She was running around in a sweatshirt and shorts…a far cry from her parka and woolly hats, which I have pretty much destroyed anyway.

As we’re returning home, the nice female bus driver says, “What a nice dog. She’s your baby, isn’t she? You’re her mom.”

What a perceptive bus driver!

Cathy: “Well, I won’t be getting a Mother’s Day gift from her.”

Bus driver: “What do you mean? She’ll give you love and kisses!

Cathy: “More likely I’ll get presented with a chewed-up sock.”

Driver (laughing): “Yeah, that too.”

Hmm. Too bad I can’t go home with that nice bus driver.

Oh well. This morning I’m sleeping angelically on the couch, tummy filled with gourmet crunchies. Life is good.

Cathy should be grateful. Her aging tabby cat defines a hairball as the perfect gift, Mother’s Day or otherwise.

Since she discovered the joy of laptops, my mom Cathy likes to sit on her couch and work. She still works mostly from her cool home office, tucked away into an alcove.

When she works in her office, I have to sit on a cushion on the floor. But when she works on her couch, I curl up on the other end. That way I can keep Cathy out of trouble and make sure she stays more or less focused on her business. All part of my underpaid, underrated job.

Since Cathy works on the phone, she likes having a cordless phone so she can sit on her couch and talk. And she can jump up and pull socks away from me, while holding a conversation with someone halfway around the world.

So when her 8-year-old cordless phone started dying, and she couldn’t push the buttons to dial numbers, she said, “I will go purchase a cordless phone. No big deal.”

Wrong.

I heard her talking to someone from her cell phone. “Why can’t I get a cordless phone that works? I’ve been through two phones already. I can’t hear the person on the other end, although I can hear operators. Ridiculous! What happened to the days when you could just walk into a store and point to a box and say, ‘I’ll take that one.’”

After she hung up, she used a few words that are not suited to my innocent canine ears. Then she vowed to use her old cordless phone, which works beautifully. “I just can’t dial out but people usually call me anyway,” she explained. “At least I can hear them.”

Cathy called half a dozen people on her cell phone to see if anyone could help. They said, “Who uses a land line anymore? Just a cell phone, thank you very much.” Or they said, “I hate my cordless phone too.”

Frankly, I don’t care. Dogs don’t talk on phones. And I’m sleeping on a ten-year-old dog bed, so I’m hardly in a …um…position to advocate for change.

I just hope Cathy doesn’t go over her cell phone minutes because then she’ll mutter about wasting money. And she’ll think twice before buying me another toy, let alone a bag of those delicious treats from Downtown Dog Lounge.