Guest Post by Jaime Simpkins: My mom doesn’t usually allow me to run guest posts from commercial ventures unless there’s an affiliate link. where she earns money for my treats if somebody buys. We made an exception because this topic is of special interest to me.

We don’t know anything about this crate company. But we can relate to the challenge. Remember my earlier posts on locating my crate in our new home?

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Where to Locate a Crate in your Home by Jaime Simpkins

If you are thinking about owning a dog crate, you are probably wondering where in the house to put it. Your dog, being a pack animal, would prefer the part of the house where the family spends the most time while he is in the crate.

[Gracie says: "You got that right! Remember when we first moved here? My crate was in a hallway. I hated it."]

If you have more than one dog sharing the crate, it may not be so important to keep all of the family together, as crate time can still be spent with a companion.

[Gracie says:"I'm the only dog here. The cats stop by to say hello sometimes. But share a crate with a crate? No way!"]

The makers of some dog crates have gone to great lengths to make their crates look like furniture with wooden slats that can be styled to look like other furniture items. The  wood dog crate allows you to dye, lacquer, or paint the crate so that it blends in with the rest of the room. If that style of crate doesn’t particularly suit your taste or budget, try using a conventional wire crate as a shelf by putting a hard surface on top of it.

[Gracie says: "Great idea, mom! Maybe I'll get a wooden crate someday. Meanwhile, we just cover my crate with a blanket when I'm not using it and when we're home."]

Young dogs that aren’t used to spending the night crated may whimper and whine while you are trying to get your beauty sleep. If that’s the case in your household, then you may want to bring your pup’s crate into your bedroom just for one or two nights. This will give him companionship while he is becoming accustomed to his new bed. If the crate is beside your bed, you can reach down and stroke your pup if he becomes unsettled. When he is spending the night in his crate without distress, you can move the crate out of your bedroom.

[Gracie says: "My mom doesn't adopt puppies. As a senior dog, I can see why. But for my first few months with mom, I had to sleep in my crate at night. My mom wanted to be sure I was house trained. She gave me a peanut butter kong every night so I knew I was being rewarded for being a great dog. Now I sleep on the mom's bed, along with the ditzy Creampuff who jumps on and off and the fat Ophelia who takes up a LOT of room. Sometimes I'd rather be back in that crate with my peanut butter."]

Don’t forget to look around the crate when you have put it in its permanent position. Check for power cables or electrical wires, and make sure there aren’t any curtain tassels dangling into the crate. These can hurt your dog if he chews them.

Keep an eye on whether or not the crate is in direct sunlight from a nearby window, because this will be hot and uncomfortable for your dog. Similarly, avoid drafts so he doesn’t get cold.

[Gracie says: "Never fear. My mom is a fanatic. I always have a bowl of fresh water and my tough rubber toy - nothing I can destroy."]

There is no “one size fits all” perfect spot for a dog crate. You don’t want the crate in the way of your family, and you don’t want it to negatively affect your home décor. Your dog wants to be where the action is, and don’t want to feel left out. Take the time to work out a position for the crate that suits both you and your dog.

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Gracie: Thanks for the tips, Jaime! Thanks to my mom’s friend Pam Ellis, I have a great place for my crate: right in the living room where it belongs.

Maybe you’re heard the expression “fraidy-cat.” Our cats aren’t afraid of anything, except maybe the vacuum cleaner.

My mom has been worried that I’m turning into a fraidy-dog. Here’s what happened. One day we went to Regrade Park, the off-leash park that’s just two blocks away from our new home. A big dog jumped on me. I demanded to leave. We did.

Then a few days later, the same dog was back … and the same thing happened. Now I hate going to the park.

Frankly, I haven’t been crazy about that park for awhile. I’m not as young as I used to be: I’ll be eight in just two months. That’s getting into senior dog status, my mom says. So I no longer want to jump around with a bunch of high-energy younger dogs. I like sitting on the wall and letting Lindsay, Sue, Andy, William or some of the other humans make a big fuss over me. On very rare occasions, my mom allows me to accept a treat. That’s even better.

But now I tug on the leash when we walk to the park. As soon as we get there, I head right to the exit with a purposeful expression.

“Oh no, Gracie! We just got here!” my mom says. “We have to de-sensitize you.”

For help she turned to Andy, who’s a professional dog trainer. He had a great idea. Treats. LOTS of treats. “Special treats just for the park!” he said.

“Liver bits?” my mom suggested.

Yaay. I love liver bits.

My mom is no dummy, although you might wonder at times. I get peanut butter only in the crate so I love my crate. If I get liver bits only in the park, she hopes I’ll learn to love the park. I’m not so sure.

After all, my mom isn’t a great example of bravery. She’s not crazy about water, heights, shaky bridges and a bunch of other things that she won’t let me share here. When she bought a house in Florida, she got Keesha because she didn’t want to be alone in the house with just two cats. Did I mention that she also had a perfectly functioning alarm system?

“If I get another house, I’ll need a second dog,” she tells me. “You’re not ferocious enough.”

My mom’s getting older, too. Unlike me, she refuses to admit it. Yesterday she dove right into a zumba class where she was probably the oldest person by twenty years. That’s the equivalent of me joining a pack of three-year-old feisty dogs and trying to keep up.

“Don’t tell George the Fitmonkey,” she told me as she limped out the door to take me on a walk. Her hips were sore from all those “swing your booty” moves.

“When I have to give up these gym classes, I’m giving you to Bill in New York and joining the great aerobics class in the sky.”

I could say a lot but I value my treats, not to mention my regular high-priced food and walks with Aunt Sara. So I’ll leave it to my followers to fill in the blanks.

Last Thursday we were on our way to the Farmers Market. We were running late (so what else is new) and the weather was quite warm and sunny. I was in an excellent mood. So when we passed two male humans on bicycles, I was overjoyed. They smelled like dog-loving people. Surely they wanted to play? I jumped up to see.

“Oh no, Gracie!” my mom yelled. “Sit! SIT! Did I say, ‘SIT?’”

What’s the problem?

“They’re cops on bikes,” my mom explained. “We have to be on good behavior.”

So…what was I doing wrong? One of the men leaned down and patted me. He gave me a nice butt rub, just where I like to be massaged. I leaned into him and I could feel the vibes. This was a man who needed a dog fix.

“See? Much better,” the man said.

My mom was too stunned to take a picture, a fact she regretted later. We continued on to the bus stop.

“Luckily you are wearing your tags,” my mom said. “Seattle is very strict about ID.”

Why wouldn’t I be wearing my tags? They’re attached to my collar and we never leave home without them.

As we waited for the bus, my mom realized what she was wearing. She was even more dressed down than usual because she knew she’d go right home to shower and change for the basketball game. So she was wearing her old shorts with holes – yes, real holes – and her ancient t-shirt that looks like somebody washed a dog with it. She also had her sneakers with holes and her roller suitcase that’s coming apart. She had her keys and bus pass on a lanyard around her neck; some people think it’s cool but I sense that many think otherwise.

“Maybe they thought we were poor and homeless,” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

No way, mom. You may look like a scruff but I’ve got a shiny coat and a regal air that doesn’t fool anybody. I may be naked but I do have a nice leash, collar and all the tags a canine princess needs to survive in the city of Seattle.

My mom just read me an article from the local paper, the Seattle Times. Apparently a nice German Shepherd had been employed as a bomb-sniffing dog. She had been a playful, happy pup before she was deployed. All the loud noises and stressful conditions were too much for her. She became withdrawn and afraid of people. You can read the article here/

Fortunately the military people worked hard to rehabilitate this dog. They gave her treats (always a good idea!) when she walked outside. They encouraged her to walk through doorways by offering treats. Most important, they gave her LOTS of love.

However, as a dog who’s been through two rescue groups, I don’t see why anyone is surprised. Every dog who goes through a shelter or rescue group has probably been traumatized. Kind, loving, knowledgeable owners rarely have dogs that end up in rescue. If they can’t keep their dogs, they make responsible arrangements. Anyway, just being in a cage, or being uprooted from a loving environment, will be traumatic. We need lots of extra love and (are you listening, mom?) more treats.

My mom never forgets that I’m a rescue dog. She reminds me every day, “Gracie, you have issues.” She tells everyone we meet, “Gracie is a rescue mutt.” Can’t she just say, “Gracie is a shepherd-lab mix?” I don’t know if I am or not, but who cares?

I’ve come a long way, though. Everybody says so! “Gracie is so much more confident,” they say. “She looks so happy!”

True. I’m a lucky dog. But I can’t help wondering. If I’d waited just a little longer, maybe Bill Gates would have adopted me.

Read the article here: http://tinyurl.com/32jt29a

Whew…we’ve had a busy weekend. On Friday evening my mom went off to a basketball game with some of her pals. She came home later, contented because her team won.

On Saturday I usually recover from my Friday excursion to Magnuson Park with my Aunt Sara. But Mom was on a roll. She took me with her while she ran a few errands in Upper Queen Anne. I got to smell some grass and accept a treat from the Queen Anne Bookstore. On the rare occasions my mom buys a book, she goes there, because they’re so nice to me.

Okay, I was ready to turn in. But no: the mom decided we needed to see the famous Seattle Torchlight Parade. As a dog, I don’t get parades. I rarely see anything because I’m too close to the ground. There’s all kinds of noise from loud music, screaming, drums, roars…gimme a break.

I got lots of attention from the crowd though. Several people said, “What a beautiful dog.” A few people offered snacks but my mom held firm. One woman jumped: “I just felt a cold nose on my hand.” Yep. That was me.

Even my mom got tired as we watched one car after another go by with beautiful women in prom dresses. That’s what my mom called them. Finally we heard a “boom” from the cannon down the street. “That’s our signal to leave,” my mom said. “Last time we watched the parade together, you got spooked. Remember? It was so long ago that dogs were still allowed in Uptown Espresso. You jumped in my lap and started shaking.”

Me remember? I’m a dog. But I was happy to escape and return home to catch up on my sleep.