Last night my mom Cathy went to a meeting for her neighborhood, Queen Anne in Seattle. I had to stay home in my crate but when she came back, I could tell she had been talking to my good pal Lindsay, the Regrade Park Dog Steward.

The meeting was about changes to Kinnear Park, a magnificent natural park that’s a short walk from where we live.  My mom loves the views of the Sound but I like the smells of the squirrels.  The only problem is, I am not allowed to run around loose and chase those wonderful squirrels. My mom says there’s a movement afoot to install a dog park and  I, for one, can’t wait.

Our small group was led by an architect from Vancouver, BC. He said, “In Vancouver, dogs don’t have separate parks. They can run loose on the trails for certain times of the day.”

My mom was puzzled. “Don’t the dogs escape?” she asked. I wasn’t there but I can just imagine.

“Canadians train their dogs,” the man said. “They don’t run away.”

Oops. My mom has been eying me ever since she came home. Training? I’m the ultimate escape artist. Good thing I wasn’t adopted by a Canadian family.

Checking my mom's cell phone plan: Are treats included?

My mom Cathy just read me this article from the New York Times. Apparently some people think dogs should be left at home and others (like my mom) want to take their dogs everywhere.

Speaking as a dog (the only way I can speak, if you call this speaking), I don’t want to go everywhere. My mom’s tried to sneak me into supermarkets. Sometimes they let us go but I hate those shiny, polished floors. I dig my paws in and Cathy has to drag me along. Naturally we can’t be inconspicuous when that happens. Yaay! We are forced to leave in disgrace.

But coffee shops? Another story. My mom used to go to Uptown Espresso in Seattle all the time. She’d tap away on her laptop or read. I would curl up and sleep. Everybody loved us. Strangers would come up to offer me treats, which my mom always declined on my behalf.

My mom takes me to the Verizon store where she has endless questions about using her new Droid. She is shameless about asking for help and getting the store people to help install all sorts of applications. Geoffrey Hise (the store manager in the photo) introduced her to Bus Bot and now I have to sit patiently at the bus stop while she fiddles around wondering when the next bus is due. Usually it takes her so long the bus comes while she’s poking the screen.

Mom doesn’t mind asking for help. “I know I’m Internet-savvy,” she says. “Besides most people won’t use half their apps because they’re afraid to speak up and admit what they don’t know.”

True. I don’t know too many dogs who are shy about asking for anything. Why not? A resounding “no” goes right past my ears and most of the time a delicious treat goes right into my mouth.

My mom goes in stages in her life. As the resident dog, I get to observe from a safe distance, mostly my crate, because her enthusiasms take her out of the house more often.

Last year my mom got into fitness in a big way. Declaring the Year of the Body, she went to all kinds of weight lifting classes.  This year she found a trainer who taught her to be fit without all the weight lifting and anyway, her schedule is too crazy for classes.

So this year my mom declared the Year of Creativity or (more realistically)  doing things for which she has no talent.  As a dog, I feel  it’s not my place to comment on the vast number of things my owner is not good at. I’m just happy she has marketable skills so we are never short of funds for  crunchies and dog walks.

But the mom is determined to expand her horizons. In the fall she took up pottery. If you look in earlier posts in the “Pottery” category, you will see she is not going to be one of those aging potters who celebrates her eightieth birthday with a new designer vase. And just before Christmas she stopped by the gym one night and walked into a hip-hop class. She was hooked. Fortunately, I am not allowed in the gym, so I am not forced to watch her try to be coordinated, the way I have been roped (literally) into weekends at the pottery studio.

“It’s not very fast or furious,” she sassures me. “It’s a workout class. The instructor offers three versions of everything: easy, realistic and impossible.  We have to learn combinations and move to music. That’s supposed to be good for my aging brain.”

Yeah, right. My mom’s brain seems to be just fine when it comes to seeing through my repertoire of treat-seeking ploys.

“I’m getting better,” she told me last night as she fed me a late night snack of well-cooked rice (see previous post – let’s not go there). “At first I kept getting lost and now I can almost follow when she teaches us a new set of eight counts. And we can improvise. We’re not trying out for Chorus Llne, after all.”

Not hardly.  As we went on our evening walk, my mom was humming, “And a 5, 6, 7, 8 … and turn to the RIGHT!”

Whatever you say, mom. As a dog, I’d vote for, “And a 1, 2, 3, 4… and turn to the FOOD.”

Monday was a beautiful day, by human standards. When the weather seems good, my mom drags me off to Regrade Dog Park in Belltown, I’m supposed to play with the other dogs but in reality she likes Belltown with the brownstones and the city-gritty ambience. As a dog, I prefer the more rural dog parks but my mom points out that we don’t have a car and she never wants to drive in Seattle, or maybe anywhere.

So Monday we go to the park and some nice man is there giving out treats to his dog. Delicious treats. Rich treats. Bone marrow treats. My mom will never, ever buy me treats like that. She likes healthy boring treats that are supposed to be good for me.  And she really, really hates having people give me treats.

Well, I snuck a few of those wonderful treats. When it comes to sneaking treats I’m the best. My mom would have taken me home but then I started running around. That always gets her. “Yaay – Gracie is running!”

That evening I demanded to Go Outside at 8:30 PM. At 10:30, when I demanded another Outing, my mom knew Something Was Happening That Was Not Good. She shoved a pill down my throat, guaranteed to restore my tummy back to normal.

At 2:30 AM, she didn’t even try to be polite. “You were the one who wanted to go out,” she muttered as I took my time finding the Perfect Spot. “At this hour we are not walking very far.” Then she whisked me into my crate, which was a good idea.

By the time my Aunt Sara came to pick me up, I was feeling my usual lively self although my mom refused to give me breakfast. “We’re not taking any chances,” she said. She was not in a good mood. My mom needs her sleep.

“I can take a nap,” she said, “while you play in the park.”  Thank goodness. I was happy to escape.

My readers will be relieved to know I finally got some dinner: a little warm rice. Not exactly what I’d call a satisfying meal for a work-hard, play-hard dog. But even I know: sometimes a dog just has to keep quiet and let her snugglng speak for itself.

Every so often there’s a perfect harmony between dog and furniture. The people who designed this dog bed knew what they were doing. It’s perfect for a medium sized dog like me.

Okay, to be honest, I would rather have my spot on the couch. But Ophelia took over when we were out for a walk and she won’t give it up. Well, I have a perfect spot to set my chin and contemplate the action. Fortunately Ophelia hasn’t shown an interest in this bed and Creampuff doesn’t put up much resistance. Life is good.

And what have we here? It looks like a very small, very spoiled dog. A pug, to be exact.

Pugs are very popular in Seattle, my mom says. We once met a pug when we were out walking. The owner told my mom, “I knew someone who worked in the shelter. They called when this pug came in. I had to get down there in an hour because so many people wanted a rescue pug.”

Hmm. Not many people were seeking a royal mixed breed like me. My foster home actually gave my mom a sales pitch. “Great dog. I’d keep her myself if I didn’t already have three dogs. She looked so cute playing with the puppies. She sits on the couch and chews on her chew toys.”

Uh-oh. My mom got suspicious. “Chews on her chew toys? And what else?”

“No way,” they lied. “Just her toys.”

By the time my mom found out about my Power Teeth, it was way too late.

This pug seems fairly useless. He just sits on his blankie and waits for people to come worship him. Even Ophelia moves around more than that. But you can tell he’s a sweet dog in his own way. I tried to get him to play, since I love small dogs. No dice.

Here we are exchanging pleasantries about our respective owners. My mom is much stricter than his mom. His mom has left him in the care of Lindsay, the dog park steward, so he will continue to be spoiled rotten.

Lindsay is the steward of the Regrade Dog Park. She’s a dog lover and an awesome Steward. Everybody behaves when Lindsay’s in the park, even me.

“Lindsay is a natural executive,” says my mom, who definitely isn’t.

Here’s Lindsay watching over a pug dog, whose name we forgot, and her own dog, Jasper. Jasper is a legally registered service dog so he gets to go everywhere. He’s very laid-back except when he doesn’t like someone who’s walking by the park. Then Lindsay has to tell him to be quiet. After all, she gets out the official Regrade Park Squirt Gun when other dogs bark. The uppity Belltown neighbors get upset.

Uh oh. I did it again. My mom went to upload some photos from her camera. She found the cord. The USB end was just fine. The end that goes into the camera was gone.

“Look at this, Gracie!” my mom exclaimed. “Teeth marks!”

Time for me to leave the room.

“Do you know what these cords cost?” my mom exclaimed. “How many boxes of treats could I buy with this money?”

Maybe I can get Creampuff to give me an alibi. Thank goodness my mom has her new phone camera. Otherwise this blog would be blank.

I hadn’t thought of that. The cord was so delicious.

Here’s Ophelia firmly holding on to her spot on the couch.

She got here first and notice how she’s expanded to take up the whole space. Not hard to do when you’re a queen-sized feline. Notice how there’s no way I can possibly squeeze in.

Cats control their world even when they’re asleep…or pretending. Ophelia’s got one eye squinting out at us.

My mom doesn’t really care who’s on the couch as long as somebody joins her. She says, “I pay all this money for crunchies. The least I can expect is some company while I work.”

And she’s happy to see Ophelia emerge from her hiding places and join the family. She will never forget how Ophelia arrived as a timid stray cat who promptly stopped eating and got sick with liver disease.

Ophelia’s left her past behind. Better than some humans, my mom says. She’s totally at home, as you can see. And I don’t think she belongs in the “finicky eater” department anymore. My mom just put out an SOS call to the vet, asking how much to feed Ophelia every day. I suggested we send Ophelia out to catch some mice in the park but nobody paid any attention.

My mom came across this website about dogs who work in the justice system: http://www.courthousedogs.com

Here’s a quote:
“The use of courthouse dogs can help bring about a major change in how we meet the emotional needs of all involved in the criminal justice system. The dog’s calming presence creates a more humane and efficient system that enables judges, lawyers, and staff to accomplish their work in a more positive and constructive manner.”

My mom is rather cynical about the justice system, to say the least, so she snorted at the words “humane and efficient.” As a dog, I’d say we’d have fewer people in prison if society broadened the application of dog training. The idea with dogs is “correction,” not “punishment.” Good trainers stop us before we get a chance to do something we’re not supposed to do. We get rewarded and encouraged.

Of course, stubborn dogs like me are always testing the limits. But I’m never destructive unless the perfect sock crosses my path. And I’m never, ever mean.

After all, I’m always treated with respect, although we have some issues about rushing through a walk in ten minutes when my mom gets behind schedule. I eat high quality food. I have a nice home, good medical and dental care, and a comfortable bed. I am never allowed to hang out with dogs or people who would be a bad influence; my mom regulates treats and won’t let me jump up to greet people, even when they say, “Oh that’s so cute…”

Treat humans this way and prisons would be empty. Then we could use the money to spoil even more dogs.

Since we’re not there yet, we are glad to see dogs in court rooms where they calm everybody down. The courthousedog.com site recommends assistance dogs, rather than therapy dogs. Apparently assistance dogs are good around children, wheelchairs and other impediments.

My mom would like to put me to work. She’s looked into the visiting dogs program, where we could go into hospitals and nursing homes. Unfortunately, she says, I won’t qualify. I’m terrified of shiny floors and when I meet another dog, my reactions are not predictable. Very sad, she says, as I’d be perfect for this kind of work.

I’ve already got a full-time job, as we pointed out recently. So i’d just as soon get extra nap time.