Yesterday we stepped outside into a world covered with snow. Beautiful but very cold. My mom grumbled because she had to wear her parka again and she’s ready for shorts and t-shirts.

Lighten up, Mom! And how about getting out the dog brush? I’m shedding all over the place. Spring doesn’t have the same meaning to a dog.

This morning Mom noticed I was coughing and trying not to choke. At first she was worried.

But when I coughed up some cloth, she caught on. “Gracie, you are chewing up the toy you got as a birthday gift – the nice yellow bear you got from Summer. There’s a big hole in the bear’s paw. You’ve got cotton filling all over the floor.”

Me? I tried to look innocent. Mom took the toy away and gave me one of those toys that promise to be chew-proof. Boh-ring!

“From now on,” Mom said, “you stay where I can see you. You choose: sofa or dog bed.”

So I’m curled up tight on a corner of the sofa, instead of sprawled out on Mom’s nice big bed.  The dog bed is nice too, but it’s on the floor. We CUPPIEs don’t like to sit on floors. (A CUPPIE is a Canine Urban Princess. Haven’t you been reading this blog?)

“And if you ever leave the bed to eat cat food,” Mom said,  “you’re in the crate for the night.”

Yeah, yeah. Good thing you’re not a human mom. Your kids would be in therapy for life.

Don’t tell Mom, but the crate’s not so bad. I get a peanut butter kong to keep me company. Who needs anything else?

After the cat food fiasco, my mom has been feeding me small amounts of crunchies mixed with rice. I’m eating.  I’m happy and healthy. See, mom? No bit deal. I haven’t dragged you out at 2 AM for the last two nights.

The cats are another story. Cathy doesn’t want me eating their food so she put their dishes on the kitchen counter. Creampuff enjoys jumping up. Ophelia, who’s not exactly skinny, says that waddling is more her style. So Cathy lifts he up a few times a day, hoping she’ll get the message.

Ophelia’s not into messages. I think she was spoiled rotten in her first home. But give her credit: she’s adjusted well, all things considered. Some cats hide in a closet for a whole year. Or a lifetime.

Ophelia just hides in her kitty condo.

Good grief! Friday evening I started to get sick. My tummy was pounding. So I dragged my mom out half a dozen times. She didn’t get much sleep.

“The vet gave me some miracle pills to nip this in the bud,” she grumbled. “But I ran out.”

So Saturday morning, we were off to the vet first thing. Well, almost. Mom had to do some work on her computer and I seemed to be better.

We saw that nice Dr. Kira. I always enjoy coming when she’s the vet on duty.

But not today. Dr. Kira said, “Gracie is too fat! She should eat 2/3 cup of food, twice a day. And cut back on the treats.”

There goes the neighborhood.

I also have to get my teeth cleaned. And my mom keeps shoving pills down my throat. She refused to feed me last night.

“Your tummy needs a rest,” she said firmly. “And so do I.”

Well, I took matters into my own four paws. Mom was feeling relaxed and happy after hearing the Jupiter Symphony at a concert downtown. We went to bed early.  I curled up on my cushion at the foot of Mom’s bed, like I’m supposed to. But I was hungry.

Mom was so exhausted she didn’t hear me jump off the bed and head for the kitchen, where I polished off all the cat food. Usually she wakes up when I move an inch.

When Mom woke up this morning, I was lying next to her, in Ophelia’s spot, on Ophelia’s cat cushion. Ophelia was pacing around looking disgruntled.

Mom leaped out of bed. “Gracie, you are not a cat! What are you doing here? Oh no…” She ran to the kitchen.

Sure enough. I couldn’t hide the evidence: two empty plates on Mom’s kitchen floor.

“Gracie, either you start sleeping in your crate again or the cats will learn to eat on the counter,” Mom said.

Good luck, Mom. Ophelia refuses to jump. I think that cat is afraid of heights.

Luckily, I seemed fine. Mom took me for a walk. I showed no ill effects of scarfing down two helpings of cat food. Mom is going to take me to the dog lounge, following our usual Sunday routine.

Yesterday my mom wanted to take some time for R&R after her gym class. So I spent almost the entire day at the Downtown Dog Lounge with my adopted big sister, Summer, and the other folks who adore me.

“She played in the pen,” they reported when Mom came to pick me up.

“Where does she get the energy?” Mom wondered. I’m not telling.

Then everybody fussed over me on the bus trip home.

“Beautiful dog.”

“So mellow.”

“My dog would never sit like that.”

Of course, my mom has to spoil everything. She likes to tell the world, “Gracie is a rescue mutt. She thinks she’s a princess. Princesses don’t ride on the floor, so she sits on my lap.”

Well, would you want to ride on the floor? Who knows what else has been there? And how would you like being called a mutt?

Actually, my mom Cathy doesn’t mind at all. She hates the idea of classifying people by nationality or ethnic group. “I’m a mutt myself,” she says. “I don’t know anything about my ancestors either.”

My mom is like me in other ways, too.  She resists training and she likes treats. But nobody’s ever, ever complimented her on being well-behaved.

I’m working on it…after my nap.

I’m getting on in years. My mom keeps looking at me and saying, “Gracie, you’re almost six and half. You’ll be seven in October.”

Yeah, yeah. I can count. Well, actually not, because I’m a dog, but I know I’m not getting younger. I sleep more. I tolerate the cats.

My mom gets anxious because she thought her First Dog, the sainted Keesha, would live forever. Cathy and Keesha were very close. Keesha had to teach Cathy how to be a dog owner. Thankfully, she’s a quick learner, so my job is easier.

Then my mom read a news article to me. “A ten-year-old dog won the Westminster Dog Show,” she said. “For a dog, ten is the new six.”

True. At six and a half, I’m like a three-year-old. I chew socks. I play hard at the dog park. And I still like to give the cats a little grief. Especially that fuzzy Ophelia, our new housemate. She’s nine and still going strong. And Creampuff still plays like a kitten.

My mom was thrilled to realize I might be around for awhile. And she was even happier with Gail Collins’s column, which declared, “Old is in.” Collins pointed to Stump, the 10-year-old dog who won Westminster, as well as new heroes like the  US Airways pilot.

I’m still young enough to chew on Cathy’s socks. Who cares about anything else?

Last week, as usual, I went to the Downtown Dog Lounge while Mom worked out in the gym. They recognize a CUPPIE – a Canine Urban Princess – when they see one.

Patrick is paying homage to me here with a treat and I’m condescending to accept it. This is life as it shold be.

My mom Cathy was watching a video at Petzume, “10 Dumbest Dog Breeds.” She kept looking over at me, with a critical eye. Luckily I don’t look like any of those breeds.

Anyway, Cathy gave up on the list when she came to “Dumb Breed Number 7 (or was it 9?): the Chow Chow. Cathy’s first dog, the sainted Keesha, was part chow. True, Mom says, she had all the qualities listed. Fiercely loyal to her owner. Jealous. Likes to be the center of attention.

“But Keesha was so smart,” Cathy says. “When I said, ‘Want to go for a ride?’ she would go right to the car. When I said, ‘Walk?’ she would jump up and wag her tail, ignoring the car completely.”

Then Cathy looked up the 10 smartest breeds, defined as “easiest to train.” The smartest (according to this video) is…a Border Collie?

“Come on,” Mom said. “Border collies train their owners. One border collie in New Mexico taught its owner to throw frisbees for hours.”

Whew. What a relief. For awhile there I thought mom was going to administer an IQ test, although she thinks all those tests are hogwash.

Then she got distracted by a cool video on that site: How cats wake up their owners. “Just like Creampuff,” she nodded approvingly.

I went back to sleep, dreaming of my own video. How Owners Wake Up Their Dogs (and why they shouldn’t).