I don’t claim to be an expert on dog behavior. My mom isn’t either. Otherwise I wouldn’t chew so much.

But as a city dog, I believe mom did the right thing. She found me in a rescue group that keeps dogs in foster homes. My foster mom loved me (who wouldn’t?). She wanted to keep me but her husband said they had too many dogs already.

My mom was very worried about adopting a new dog. After all, she had just lost the first canine love of her life, the sainted Keesha. “Will Gracie eat cats?” she asked. “Will she bark?”

Of course my name wasn’t Gracie then. But my foster mom knew a lot about me. She knew I would be fine with cats because she had cats in the foster home. She knew I wouldn’t have a barking problem. And she knew I liked to chew on my chew toys. (Of course, she didn’t realize that when I came to Cathy’s house, everything would be a chew toy.)

For more tips, visit http://www.yourcitydog.com

My mom is testing a new website. She’s determined to make money from me. “Your namesake, Amazing Gracie, helped found Three Dog Bakery,” she reminds me, almost daily. “So far you’re just running up bills for vet care and pet sitting.”

I’m not worried. If Mom didn’t send back our high-maintenance housemate Oophelia, I’m not going anywhere.

On Monday my mom took me for a long walk — all the way to the top of Queen Anne Hill. She was feeling really virtuous because she also went to the gym that evening, after we got home.

She was admiring all those blossoms. But as you will see in later photos, I am enjoying the grass and the drinking dishes that people leave out for me.

Ophelia is trying to get into the “Think Small” spirit, but she just doesn’t fit. Here’s a picture of Ophelia sitting on one of Tiger’s old cat cushions.

“She’s so cute!” my mom says, snapping her picture.

“She’s so BIG,” I say. “Even her picture is bigger than mine.”

Sure enough, my mom tried to pick up Ophelia.

“Still a fat kitty,” she said. “At least I don’t have to chase around after her, trying to shove food down her throat.”

My mom loves living in a small apartment in Seattle. She’s owned homes. She doesn’t want to get into a condo where everybody fights. She likes being right in the middle of Seattle.

So she’s cutting back on possessions. Fortunately, my mom isn’t the materialistic type. She’s been giving away a lot of clothes and realizing (finally!) that some of her old clothes are ready to be turned into rags.

We all have to Think Small. I don’t take up much room.  

My mom added a Wall Street Journal so you can get an idea of my size. I’m all curled up like a (pardon the expression) cat.

Can you believe it: my mom got her new camera-to-laptop cable. And what did she do? She took a picture of the cord I allegedly chewed.

Can’t we move on already? Anyway, Ophelia did it.

Anyone want a slightly used cat? Make that well-used cat with a lot of issues?

My mom just showed me a gorgeous Himalayan cat on  the Twitter site of @KarenBrunet. Lots of great cats out there. Maybe we can trade Ophelia in and get a cat that’s more productive. Ophelia’s specialty is hiding in her cave and fussing about food. Here she’s hiding in the blankets of our bed.

Nice try, my mom said. She thinks Ophelia is (pardon the expression) the cat’s meow. “What a great cat!” she tells Ophelia every day. “I’m so glad I got to adopt you.”

So maybe I can get a Twitter account and start sharing my views?

No way. My mom is very strict about that.  “You have your blog,” she says. “That’s enough for a dog.”

She’s not in a mood for discussion. “I just met someone who leaves their dog alone for ten hours with just toys,” she said,” giving me The Look. “You’re rarely left alone. I’m here all day. You go out witih your Aunt Sara and your Big Sister Summer. Maybe every few days you’re alone for four or five hours. And you’re usually too tired to notice.”

True. I guess I’m a lucky dog, as they say. Things could be worse. I could be left alone for ten hours..or left alone with Ophelia.

Too horrifying to contemplate. Time for the mid-morning nap.

My mom saw a dog that looks a lot like me at the Downtown Dog Lounge. They told her, “He’s a Puggle.”

A puggle is a cross between a pug and a beagle. They’re supposed to be well-behaved and easy to train,

Of course, they’re smaller than I am. So I’ve got something else mixed in there.

A Puggle mix? A mix of a mix? Good grief.

My mom surfed the Internet, looking for pictures of Puggles. Here’s one. The Puggle tail and paws are remarkably similar to mine.except they’re stubborn. (Ahem.) They have square dark muzzles like mine. And they have my floppy ears that fold down like bird wings.

Does this mean I have my own tribe somewhere?

Do I care? Not unless my mom discovers that Puggles are supposed to get extra treats three times a day. But when my mom introduces me, it’s better than saying, “She’s an All-American Mutt.” She can say, “Gracie is a Puggle mix.”

But I bet she won’t. She rather likes saying, “Gracie is an All-American mutt.” That’s not really true, mom. Puggles are almost purebred.

Mom took a picture of me where she claims I’m looking guilty. Fortunately the camera cable is gone so she can’t publish it anywhere. See the previous post.

I am an innocent, misunderstood dog. My mom takes too many pictures, especially featuring me in compromising positions. She needs to get a life.

My Uncle Lance has the right idea. He won’t allow her to take his picture. He won’t even let us use his real name. I don’t always want to be seen in public with my mom either, especially since she keeps forgetting to call for a hair appointment.  Now she is wait-listed for another month.

So I am not guilty of destroying property by chewing. I am actually helping my mom by protecting her from her own devices.

My mom Cathy is not amused. She took a whole bunch of photos on Monday, when we went on our walk to Upper Queen Anne. When she went to upload them to her laptop, one end of the cable was missing. It was frayed as if someone had (pardon the expression) chewed it up.

I am in the dog house. I don’t usually chew cords and cables and I have no idea how this happened. Maybe another dog got in here while no one was looking. Maybe Ophelia got bored. She is  a high maintenance furball.

“I hope you just chewed,” Mom said. “If I get another vet bill, you will be toast.”

Toast? Sounds delicious. I love toast. Okay, no time for jokes.

Mom called the Sony people and they are sending her a new cable by Friday. She told them what happened. They do not have a sense of humor but they do have a cable.  Why would a mom try to embarrass her own dog by sharing this story with total strangers? Good  thing my mom never had human children.

It could be worse. Some dogs would chew the whole camera.  We have to keep things in perspective.

A few days ago, Cathy saw Ophelia and me sharing space peacefully. She grabbed her camera and took this picture. I’m just getting around to posting it.

Notice how graciously I’m offering to share m space with Ophelia. Cats have their own cushions. Ophelia doesn’t get it. She just plopped her rather large self on the bed, just a few inches from where I was taking my pre-bedtime nap.

The picture’s a little fuzzy because the lights weren’t on. My mom touched it up in Photoshop.

Now she’s working on getting the cats to share space. Good luck, Mom. Ophelia’s got issues.