My mom Cathy was thrilled when she went to make her bed and found the cats sitting about a foot apart. She was so pleased she raced off to get the camera. Never mind making the bed.

Where was I when all this was going on? On the living room sofa, of course.

My mom thinks Ophelia’s washing means she’s comfortable with Creampuff. I say Ophelia’s just being Ophelia. Anyway, Mom is getting used to having the cats getting along. Then she’ll turn her attention to more important subjects, like me.

Lindsay brought treats today. My mom said I could have just ONE. The whole pack is focused on Lindsay but notice how we’re being polite?

I’m the one in the upper right, on Lindsay’s left, standng on the wall. I want my treat and I want it NOW!

Sadly, not with a bang but a whimper, said my mom. She’s putting away her Seattle Storm t-shirts and her Seattle Storm dorky hat, awaiting the next season.

It seems that the Storm lost its final playoff game yesterday. My mom came home feeling sad. “They deserved to win,” she says. “The refs made some bad calls at the beginning and I think that shook the up.”

I know all about bad calls. It’s when my mom yells, “Gracie, get out of the kitchen!” while I’m sleeping peacefully on her bed. Or she’ll hear a crunching sound and jump up to investigate…only to find Creampuff diving headfirst into a plate of crunchies. For a small cat, Creampuff can be quite enthusiastic about her food.

Not to worry. I am anticipating more crate time this year. Mom signed up for symphony tickets, ballet tickets and a pottery class. She might even catch a play, she said, at the nearby Seattle Rep theatre. Fortunately, when Mom gets busy, she feels guilty about leaving me home. So we get extra trips to the park where I play with the other dogs for awhile. Not as much fun as going to Magnuson with my Aunt Sara, though. Mom says I’m thoroughly spoiled.

If you read this blog a year ago, you may recall that Mom brought home a big fluffy cat named Ophelia. Ophelia took an instant dislike to her new housemate, Creampuff. Creampuff tried to make friends but Ophelia wasn’t having any.

Ophelia got so stressed, she stopped eating. She got liver disease and Mom had to force-feed her for 5 long, miserable weeks. (The politically correct term is “assisted feeding,” but who needs to be politically correct when it comes to cats?)

A year later and we’re making some progress. Creampuff really wants a playmate, but at least they’re starting to talk. Dogs don’t have these problems, especially dogs like me. I love everybody. Who wouldn’t want a new live-in buddy? But I never claimed to understand cats in general and Ophelia makes a good case for establishing a Cat Mental Health Clinic somewhere. Of course, my mom Cathy adores Ophelia and thinks Ophelia is perfect.

“May be the best cat I ever had,” she says. “She’s so cute when she waddles.”

Yeah, right. If I waddled my rations would be cut back even more. But cats, says my mom, are supposed to be spoiled rotten. Ours certainly are.

Wow…that wasn’t so bad. I got my teeth cleaned but they didn’t have to pull any teeth. No bleeding. No big plls shoved down my throat. And my nice Aunt Sara picked me up at the vet’s office so I didn’t have to deal with grouchy cab drivers. And my mom, in a rare moment of sensitivity, realized I couldn’t make it to the bus stop and back in my woozy condition.

My mom put me up on my cushion on the couch. The vet said, “She probably won’t be hungry.” Who’s kidding who? I never turn down a treat. You never know when the next one will come. But my mom gave me a light dinner, just to be sure. Oh well…there’s a lot to sleep off today.

“You are so lucky you have a family that sends you to the vet for dental work,” my mom said. Sometimes lucky has to be appreciated in the abstract.

Today was not a great day for my life as a dog. First of all, my mom hid the cat food last night and didn’t give me any breakfast. She put me in my crate first thing this morning, right after our walk.

“Gracie, you can’t eat anything today. Not even a crumb,” she said sternly. So there I was in my crate, without even a full dish of water. And definitely no peanut buttter.

Things only got worse. When Mom finally took me out from my crate, we hustled over to the bus stop. I couldn’t even stop to sniff. “Is that food you’re eating?” Mom said suspiciously. Guilty with an explanation. I’m starved.

Then we go to the vet’s office. I’ve been there many times and they’re always so nice! Not today.

“Can we get a weight on Gracie?” the receptionist asked.

“Oh no,” my mom said. “Gracie’s gained a few pounds, hasn’t she? Let’s try again…nope, same result.”

So that nice tech Rick grabs my leash. Usually I’m ready to go anywhere with anyone, but not today. Something doesn’t feel right. My mom says, “I’ll go with you.” She watches as Rick shows me a nice big cage. Uh-uh. Cage? Am I back in the pound?

Then they stick some needles in me. Ouch. And then I go into a nice big nap.

Things get better after I wake up. My Aunt Sara comes to take me home. I love Aunt Sara. I try not to listen when she tells my mom, “See this diagram? This is where Gracie’s teeth need to be brushed.”

“By me?” my mom says, eyeing my new shiny teeth.

“It’s not so bad,” Aunt Sara says. “Just some gauze and doggie toothpaste — “

I had to take immediate action to stall this conversation. Sure enough, I soon heard a shout: “Gracie, out of the cat food!” my mom yelled.

Now I’m bak on the couch, looking tired. Ophelia is sleeping on the back of the couch so I won’t feel lonely and of course mom is there with her laptop. It’s good to be home. And my mom is delighted. Apparently my blood work was “amazingly good.”

“All that healthy dog food,” she says.

Maybe. But being a mixed breed dog, with royal lineage, doesn’t hurt either.

My mom read me this story about Michael Vick, the football player who went to prison for torturing and killing dogs.

An animal rescue group had planned to put up posters protesting Michael Vick’s presence back on the field. But then they had a better idea: donate 3 bags of dog food to a shelter every time Vick gets tackled.

Wow..every so often humans get it right. Michael Vick will always be associated with his anti-dog actions and yet dozens of homeless dogs will benefit from the donation.

We dogs are not big on revenge, although my mom tells me Garth Stein’s Book, The Art of Racing In The Rain, does have a particularly steamy example. We are, however, big on dog food, although I am currently skipping breakfast because my mom figured out I snuck off the bed and polished off the cat food last night. Can I help it if I look smug when she finds me on the floor, instead of my usual spot on her bed?

:”Keep this up, Gracie and you’ll be sleeping in your crate,” she says.

Go ahead mom. I love my crate, especially when I get a yummy kong toy with peanut butter. Maybe Michael Vick can donate a million of so to dog treats? That’s as worthy a cause as you’ll find anywhere.

Mom came home later than usual after the game last night. I was more than ready for my evening walk. But she was in a great mood.

“The game was not at all boring! The score was never more than 5 or 6 points apart! We went into overtime!” she exclaimed, hooking up my leash. “Can you believe it? The reserves held off Taurasi and Pondexter! We’d have won if we hadn’t gotten a couple of really bad calls from the referees. WNBA officiating is so bad.”

“Right now, mom, the call is one of a more down-to-earth kind,” I said.

Nobody at the rescue group warned me. If you’re looking for an owner, try to choose someone who’s NOT a basketball fan. And my mom should listen to her friend Bill more often. He was right about the game, wasn’t he? So she needs to pay attention when he advocates spoiling all dogs rotten. No diets for his dogs.

Earlier this evening my mom put aside her HUGE “To Do” list and headed over to Key Arena for the last home game of the season. “It’s going to be a dreary blowout,” she muttered as she gathered up the things she always takes to a game.

My mom’s friend Bill in New York is her sports advisor as well as her dog advisor. Bill has watched sports and owned dogs all his life. Earlier that day Mom had complained, “With three of five starters missing, this game will be a disaster.”

Bill said, “Now you never know. There can always be an upset. Someone could step up. The other team could have a bad day.”

“Yeah, yeah,” my mom said. She’s like me. She tunes out.

So mom got her game bag together. Her ticket. Her binoculars. Her highly lllegal snack. (She claims the arena has greasy, overpriced food. The security staff go through everyone’s handbag. They pretend to be looking for concealed weapons. They are actually looking for concealed sandwiches.) Her paperback book in case she gets bored and wants to read (yeah, right). Her credit card so she can stop in Metropolitan Market on the way home, without disturbing my nap. And let’s not forget…my mom’s Seattle Storm fan t-shirt and Seattle Storm fan dorky hat.

While all this is going on, I’m settling in my crate. We just got back from the Farmers’ Market so I’m tired enough to nap and wish Mom luck.

Mom was on the phone with the vet yesterday. I could tell because I heard my name and as a dog, I get these intuitive flashes about what’s really going on. And it’s not good news. Next week I am supposed to go get my teeth cleaned.

“If your teeth go bad you could get a kidney infection or worse,” my mom said, frowning at me. “And Malari thinks you’ll need anesthesia. And maybe blood tests.”

Anesthesia? No problem. That’s like a big nap, right? But then my mom said, “So Gracie can’t eat or drink after 10 PM? No water? No food?”

Uh oh. Now I’m paying attention.

“Well, I will have to put her in her crate the night before so she won’t have a chance to get into the cat food. I’ll clean up all the crumbs.”

Oh no. My tummy will be making growling noises.

“And Gracie’s dog sitter will come pick her up.” Now finally we get some good news. I adore my Aunt Sara. I’ll have to miss my trip to Magnuson but at least I’ll get to say hello. “Gracie won’t be in shape to go on the bus and some of those cab drivers are a little snippy about dogs,” my mom said. “And she’ll feel better in a familiar car.”

I’ll feel a LOT better when it’s all over and I am back home in front of my bowl of crunchies. I should be grateful I have an owner who gives me vet care but somehow…