My mom Cathy absolutely, positively hates to travel. But the other day she forced herself to pack and make a plane reservation to attend an Internet marketing conference, whatever that is.

While she’s off talking seriously about copywriting and marketing, I get to be a lucky dog. We used to go to the Downtown Dog Lounge on Bell Street, which we both loved. But the Dog Lounge closed so the mom took me to the Barking Lounge.

I was looking forward to a few days of vacation. Playing with the smaller dogs. Helping the receptionist greet visitors and administer temperament tests.

And of course I love getting away from my owner and having some fun. Mom is a good owner but she tends to be a little overzealous when it comes to my welfare. She eats right and exercises so she thinks I should too.

When we checked into the Barking Lounge, she told the desk person, “Gracie loves to chew. Don’t put anything in her crate that she could chew up. She chewed up a whole towel last week. And she’s an escape artist. Worse than a cat.”

Gee, thanks mom. There goes my fun. Fortunately the nice attendant came to escort me to my temporary den. I’m supposed to get a whole cot of my very own.

Anyway, my mom was starting to embarrass me. They gave us a list of stuff to bring (“just like summer camp,” mom said) and of course Cathy was taking it out of her bag. “See, this is her food, here are her treats, and her toy…” Then she realized they could figure this out for themselves.

“Do you think I brought enough food?” she asked.

“I think you’re good to go,” the guy at the desk said.

“Oh…as in I should go, right?” Mom said.

They didn’t disagree. Good thing Cathy never had human kids. It’s bad enough that I’m seen with her in public.

Today we’re back to a cold rainy winter in Seattle. My mom took me here for a few minutes in hopes I’ll Do My Business fast so she can go off to the gym.

As you can see, I’m getting a little distracted. And I’m ignoring the dogs dressed in green raincoats that match their owner’s.

“Ooh, they are so adorable,” my mom gushed. “I just have to take their pictures.”

Who cares? While she’s busy with the camera phone, she doesn’t notice I’m jumping…something I am strictly forbidden to do.

Do you notice I’m naked? Will I get a cute raincoat?

“Gracie, you’ll notice I’ve been wearing this coat for years,” my mom says. “I know I’m fashion-challenged. I can’t have a dog that looks more glamorous than I do.”

Why not? I already steal the show.

Accepting a treat from Lindsay.

My mom said, “Gracie, if you don’t want to play, we’re going home. Anyway, you look tired.”

Well, I should be. Yesterday I played with a charming miniature Schnauzer from New York. I enjoyed meeting a fellow urban dog while my mom got caught up with the schnauzer’s owner on what’s happening in New York, where she’s from originally. I ran all over the park.

“Stop fussing over her,” Lindsay said. “Can I give her a treat?”

Well, does it rain in Seattle? I’m ready. Someone snapped this photo and my mom immediately said, “Can you send it to me for Gracie’s blog?”

Shortly afterward we headed for home, where I zonked out immediately. I need to get rested for tomorrow’s jaunt to the big park with my Aunt Sara. A dog’s life, right?

Leaning against a friendly person in the Dog Park

And I’m very affectionate. Here I am in Regrade Dog Park getting acquainted with someone we don’t know. She’s talking nonstop on her cell phone. She interrupts to say “yes” when my mom asks if we can use this photo in her blog.

Notice that my legs are angled so I can a good, deep lean Aahhhhhhhh……. That’s The Lean.

My mom has pointed out that I’m not exactly a one-person dog, like her first dog, the sainted Keesha. “Gracie would go home with anybody,” she says. “She barely knows who I am.”

Oh come on, mom. When you’re ready to go home, I follow you to the gate (unless somebody else gets my attention). When you pick me up from daycare, I recognize you.

But hey, I’m flexible. If a better owner came along… um, better change the subject. Let’s get out of the park and go home to dinner.

Uh oh…busted again.

Mom was talking to Aunt Sara when I was dropped off this afternoon. They were talking about ME.

“Gracie’s usually good,” Aunt Sara said. “But when you drop your guard for even a minute, she’ll try something.”

“Exactly,” my mom said. “Sometimes when we are walking along, she’ll stop suddenly. She’ll get that look like, ‘Why are you making me go on?’”

True. We have two kinds of walks. Sometimes we go on a real walk where I get exercise and Mom does her errands. But often these days I get a mini-walk so I can do my business before my mom stuffs me in my crate and goes off on her own outings.

“I think Gracie knows,” the mom said, “because I fill up her crate’s water dish just before we go on our walk. She’s a very smart dog. When we come home, she doesn’t want to go inside. People feel so sorry for her. It’s like, ‘Poor thing. She doesn’t want to go in.’”

“I know just what you mean,” my Aunt Sara said. “Gracie does a good pout. You’d think we were beating her.”

“Yeah, and she’s spoiled rotten,” the mom said. “Uh oh – what was that? Gracie, are you eating the cat food? I’d better go pick it up. See you next time.”

Okay, okay. I just decided we needed a distraction from all this talk about spoiled dogs. Now I’ll move on to my nap.

Ahh…finally we get some country in the city!

My Uncle Lance told my mom about the P-patch garden here in Belltown. These gardens are set up all over Seattle. Anyone can get on a waiting list to get a plot assigned for organic gardening. They grow all kinds of fruits, vegetables and flowers. And they rake leaves into a big pile that’s perfect for sniffing.

My mom takes me over there on nice days. It’s like a little park oasis in the city, she says. She smells the flowers and sighs wistfully at the plump tomatoes. I am not allowed to enter the gardening beds (like, why would I want to? nothing interesting there). But I’m sniffing some dried l leaves.

It’s a beautiful sunny day, my mom says. Let’s enjoy the weather.

It’s a nice pile of dead stuff, I say. What could be better?

As a senior dog, I need to keep an eye on things at the dog park. These days I don’t enjoy rough play the way I used to. I don’t care for being knocked down and pawed over. I like to sit on the wall and snuggle up to people. And of course I like to meet and greet all the new dogs.

Ruby is a new pup adopted by Lindsay, the former steward and ongoing mayor of the dog park. Lindsay sits on the wall with her faithful guide dog, Jasper, and keeps an eye on things. Ruby is a brand new pup – probably a pit bull – who is extremely sweet and gentle. She’s getting socialized to other dogs and people. She’s awfully small. Ophelia would eat her for breakfast.

She’s growing fast. By the time you read this post, she will be bigger. Meanwhile, it’s nice having a kid around…as long as she doesn’t try to make me play like a pup again.

My mom likes to share stories about dog heroes. She says I should find some role models so I will appreciate what a great home I’ve got.

“Here’s a story about a bomb-sniffing dog who served with the Marines,” she said, holding up the newspaper article. “Now there’s a dog who’s got good reason to be scared.”

Gunner, a sweet-looking German shepherd, had PTSD. He was going to be discharged from the Marine Corps as “excess property.” Meanwhile the family of a war hero heard about Gunner. They had lost their son and wanted to help this veteran dog. They drove from upstate New York to South Carolina, after signing papers saying they wouldn’t sue the government if anything happened.

Apparently Gunner still needs a lot of extra love. He’s terrified of thunderstorms. He likes to sleep in his crate. Well, our housemate Ophelia still likes to escape and I prefer to be in my crate when Cathy goes out. I don’t know what to do with myself so I stand and wait for the door to open.

Gunner and I both started new lives. I must have been a country dog once, since my mom adopted me from a shelter near Bellingham. I was born to be a city dog and never looked back. And Gunther seems more suited to being a house dog, although he probably served well before getting PTSD.

“Gunner’s probably grateful to have a good home,” the mom says. “You should be too. You’ve never even served in the Marines and look at your great life.”

C’mon, mom. Marines don’t take mutts. Otherwise who knows? I think I’d be perfect in combat. The action would have to stop while everyone turned to me and said, “Oh she’s so cute.”

Fortunately both the mom and I are too old to be drafted, although my mom says, “Drafting old people would make more sense than drafting kids. I’d rather die in combat than end up in a nursing home.”

I see her point but I also see it’s past time for my walk.  Ahem.