My mom has a friend named Bill who lives in New York. They’ve only met once or twice but they talk on the phone a lot.

Bill has lived with dogs all his life so he has become my mom’s advisor on dog care. I wish she’d listen more. My mom cuts my rations when the vet or the dog walker says, “Gracie’s getting a little chunky around the middle.”

Bill would just laugh. His dogs get LOTS of treats. They get lots of company because Bill works at home two or three days a week. They share his blueberry muffins. They get visits to the doggie cardiologist, doggie neurologist, doggie ophthalmologist and (I suspect) doggie psychiatrist.

My mom says if she dies unexpectedly, I can go live with Bill if Summer doesn’t take me. I’m not complaining, even though Bill says, “I really like big fuzzy dogs.” From a certain angle, with enough treats in sight, I can look big and fuzzy.

Bill adopts elderly golden retrievers. He just adopted Murray, a 9-year-old who was pulled out of a shelter by a retriever rescue group. Murray joins another golden retriever of the same age. Murray’s settling in fine. Who wouldn’t? Bill’s house is Dog Heaven.

My mom says Ophelia has more personality than any cat she’s ever had. That’s not saying much since most cats are kind of wimpy. She was talking about Ophelia on the phone to her friend Bill (so what else is new).

Today mom heard crunching coming from the kitchen. “Gracie, stop eating!” she yelled.

Then she remembered I was in the Dog Lounge.

“Oops…now, which cat could that be? It’s Ophelia!” Sure enough, Ophelia was diving into a plate of crunchies. When she saw my mom, she looked up with that guilty “Caught in the act!” expression and dashed away.

“If Cathy thinks I’ll eat those crunchies,” Ophelia seems to be saying, “then I’ll never get the canned food and the other crunchies I like better.”

Dogs are smart. We never look guilty. When I get caught, I give my mom the “What’s the problem? I’m not doing anything!” look.

Too late, Ophelia. Mom’s on to you.

We’re having record heat in Seattle. Since we rarely get hot weather, my mom says, nobody has air conditioning. I was restless last night and even the Momster had trouble sleeping. That’s rare for her.

The cats are stretched out, looking miserable, but not too tired to scarf up their crunchies and some canned food. Mom felt sorry for them and opened a can. Ophelia adores canned food. She’s the ultimate food fuss.

Mom is going out tonight so she says she’ll probably put me in the Dog Lounge overnight, so we can all get some rest and I won’t be caged in the heat while she’s gone. “If I didn’t have teleseminars to attend, as participant and speaker,” she says, “I’d head for the air conditioniong myself.”

Yaay…if this works out, I’ll get to spend time with my buddies. When mom suffers, there’s usually a silver lining…for me.

My mom had to do something totally boring. Since we no longer have cable TV, she plays videos when she needs to get through something tedious. Today she was watching Marley and Me, a video from the library.

The movie was a great escape but an awful example of dog rearing. These people were clueless. Even I could see that. Hey, I would chew up the household if my mom didn’t make me stay in a crate when she goes out. I would jump on people and knock them over, except she keeps me on a short leash and squirts me when I get derailed.

My mom is strict but fair. She read that an obedient dog has more self-esteem. I have awesome self-esteem.

Marley was just being a dog. He had ZERO discipline. Deep down inside, his owner thought it was cute to watch Marley destroy property and scare people.

But what got my mom was the way they left Marley with a house-sitter who wasn’t a true dog person. What’s wrong with a kennel where they’d also throw in some obedience training?

“I do admire Marley’s intestinal fortitude, though,” she said, giving me The Look. “Marley ate and ate. And apparently he never woke his owner up in the middle of the night, the way you do every few months.”

True. If I ate like Marley I’d be waking Cathy up at 2 AM every night. When I eat more than my official portions, my tummy starts doing the tango. Not good.

Oh yes…they also left their three young kids alone while they went looking for Marley after Marley escaped on a rainy night. Enough said.

Last night my mom went off with a group of people to watch the Seattle Mariners baseball team. She hasn’t been to a live baseball game in over 30 years she says, and she doesn’t watch baseball on television. She just likes the group and wanted to join them. So she wasn’t too upset when the Mariners lost 8-0 (or was it 9-0? she’s not sure and dogs can’t count).

“Being a baseball fan is a lot harder than being a basketball fan,” Mom told me as we had our nightly walk. “The stadium is huge. You can’t relate to the players as people. There’s less spontaneity. And the crowd was so quiet.”

Then today she really wanted to watch the WNBA All-Star game. Some of her fave players were in! Of course we don’t have cable television. Mom actually was going to buy a used television from someone who’s moving out, because she could get local channels. But the seller didn’t know how to set up the television so Mom is still deciding whether to buy it. “I don’t need to watch anything for another six months or so,” she says.

Her gym doesn’t get the network channels. (“Gimme a break,” she says.) And by the time she figured out she could watch by computer or go somewhere else, it was too late.

But my mom looked up the interviews and videos with the team, especially Diana Tauraasi. Mom thinks Diana is showing real character. “She’s a role model of how to handle adversity,” Mom says. “We all make mistakes. Diana is showing how you can talk about them and handle them, while getting on with your life.”

So what’s the big deal? When I make a mistake, such as chewing up Cathy’s socks, I get right on with my nap. Human beings like to complicate things.

But I’m glad my mom is a basketball fan. It keeps her occupied so I get more time in the Dog Lounge.

My mom and I went to the Farmers Market in Upper Queen Anne today. As we were getting close to the market, we were stopped by a couple around Mom’s age who exclaimed over me.

“She looks just like my friend’s dog!” they said. “Looks like a cattle dog.”

“Well, she knows how to herd sheep,” my mom said, peering at me.

We were interrupted as a large brown dog  of uncertain breed passed by. I had to jump over to see what was going on.

“No!” my mom yelled. “Where did I put my squirt bottle?” She dug into her big Farmers Market bag.

“She’s protecting you.” The nice stranger patted my head and rubbed my back. “Now Gracie,” she said in soothing tones, “you don’t have to protect your mom. Your mom can take care of herself.”

Obviously she doesn’t know my mom very well.

“But isn’t she part German Shepherd?” my mom said after I calmed down. “Look at that tail!”

“Could be part dingo.”

“And she’s from Snohomish County,” my mom said, puzzled. “What’s a cattle dog doing up there?”

“Cows are everywhere,” that nice couple said, getting into their car. “Have a nice day.”

And off we went to the market. Lots of goodies on the floor for me to gobble up, while the squirt bottle got buried under a bunch of Walla Walla onions. Saved from an identity crisis by distraction. You people could learn something here.

The mom is psyched. She came home very late last night, following what should have been a brief excursion to a Seattle Storm game against LA.

“Los Angeles games are usually boring,” she said when she finally got home and took me out for a long overdue walk. “This one was exciting. Triple overtime! I’ve never even seen ONE overtime in basketball.”

My mom considered writing a post for one of her blogs about lessons learned from the game. Persistence? Advantage of the home court?

“This isn’t a game you win on the road,” someone said during the post-game interviews. “You’ve got all the fans screaming for you.”

Many people get through tough times when they’ve got their own private network of screaming fans, Mom said.

Well, I have a HUGE network of fans all over Seattle. Strangers come up to my mom on the street, saying, “Is this Gracie? I know her from the Dog Lounge.” Or, “We’ve met at the dog park. Hi, Gracie!”

Of course, Ophelia offers another version of screaming fan. She shrieked at Creampuff, who’s the most harmless, ditziest cat I’ve ever met. Ophelia seems to think Creampuff has the ferocity and firepower of a US Marine, when in fact Creampuff has the toughness and consistency of a marshmallow.

Back to my nap. Mom wishes she could do the same, but she’s got a call to prepare for.

My mom is not an insomniac. That’s one of her few virtues. She has no trouble falling asleep and (usually) staying asleep, unless I wake her up or a cat jumps on her shoulder. (She is not at all happy when that happens.)

I sleep at the foot of mom’s bed, on my own dog cushion. It’s pretty comfortable, but I don’t always like to stay there. My mom thinks she will notice if I jump off so she drifts off to sleep, assuming the cat food is safe from my hungry jaws.

The problem is Ophelia (as usual). Ophelia is the only cat my mom’s ever met who seems to be afraid of heights. Ophelia refuses to eat on the kitchen counter like a normal cat. She wants her food on the floor. Frankly, Ophelia is so huge, I think she would benefit by missing quite a few meals. But my mom worries that Ophelia will stop eating and get liver disease again.

So Mom sets out the cat food every night before she goes to bed. Two dishes of delicious food. Yum.

This morning, Mom woke up to find both dishes empty.

“Gracie, did you eat all this?” she exclaimed.

I made a big show of looking sleepy, as if I hadn’t budged all night.

Now my mom was in a quandary. She won’t starve me. But if she gives me a normal size food serving, she’s afraid my sensitive tummy will act up and she’ll pay the price. So she compromised with a smaller serving.

Well, did I sneak away and eat that food? Or did Ophelia polish everything off and then retreat to her hiding place?

I know. But I’m not telling.

Yesterday my mom read me a story about a family who got a dog from a breeder. Read the story here.

The author, Jill Abramson, said the family watched the Cesar Milan tapes and bought the book by the Monks of New Skete.

I would just advise this family not to buy too many dog manuals or watch TV shows. (Why are you indoors watching television anyway? You should be out with the dog.) Instead, invest in a good trainer and learn modern techniques.

Some training tips are just plain cruel. My mom read about books that tell owners to stick dogs’ noses in water to cure them of digging. Yuk.

My mom has been training me to walk politely on my leash. She points out that I can hurt her when I pull too hard. Yeah, right. Just in case, she now carries a spray bottle with water and a pocket full of treats. When I pull on the leash, I get squirted very gently. (She has the setting on mist and can’t figure out how to change it. An unmechanical mom can be a blessing to a dog.)

And when I’m walking along, I get treats. “Treat!” my mom calls and I stop what I’m doing.

Who wants atired old chicken bone when you can have a fresh baked biscuit? Well, most of the time, anyway. Gotta keep the mom on her toes.

My mom Cathy just read me an article from today’s New York Times. Takng the Plunge with a New Dog by Jill Abramson.

Apparently Ms. Abramson was mourning the loss of her beloved dog who died at 15. She decided to get some kind of golden retriever dog and to name the dog Scout. Her family went to a breeder and chose a small female, who came “almost housetrained.”

“So what do you think?” my mom asked.

“Who cares?” was my first reaction. “I’m still sleeping off the effects of yesterday’s Big Walk.”

(Have you noticed a trend in this blog? When the mom wants to exercise, the dog gets worn out.)

Naturally, I am all in favor of adopting dogs from shelters. There are so many wonderful dogs in all shapes and sizes. But it sounds like this breeder was responsible. The family had to apply for a dog and get accepted. That’s a good thing. My buddies at the Dog Park are mostly adopted and some of their first owners should have been screened a LOT more thoroughly.

But there’s one thing my mom agrees on, 100%. Ms. Abramson wrote:
“Although we are bonding, no one quite prepares you for the fact that a new dog makes you miss the old one. When Scout rests on her side, I see an image of Buddy, curled similarly, on our old rug in a house we no longer own.”

So true. My mom looks at me and sees Keesha sometimes, althogh it’s happening a lot less these days. Fprtimately, she thinks I channel Keesha when we’re out in public. “When people compliment me on a well-behaved dog, it’s like hearing echoes from the past,” she says.