Here’s a photo of my crate, also known as my castle. I have to stay there when my mom goes out even for a few minutes.

When I realize my mom has gone, I stand by the door and wait anxiously. If I’m left alone for hours, who knows what I’ll do? So I spend LOTS of time in the crate.

The fastener on my crate has broken. My mom has to prop it shut when she goes out. She’s very nervous about leaving me alone in a crate that won’t close properly.

She ordered a new crate door from dog.com. She was astounded that someone could own that domain name, she said. “They must have bought in back in the Dark Ages.”

I heard her on the phone with them.

“Can you hurry the order? Yes, I’ll pay extra for UPS shipping. You see, this is a dog who can’t be left alone – ever.”

Oh no. Not again.

But my ears perked up when she said, “A sale on a dog blanket? That’s a reasonable price. A nice fuzzy fleece? Hmm…”

Ah, that sounds delightful! So soft and warm. I started getting visions of curling up on the soft warm blanket…maybe nibbling a little piece of wool here and there…feeling the fleece tickling my tummy…

But then my mom said reluctantly, “I’m afraid Gracie will just chew it up. She chewed a blanket into tiny pieces. I can’t even leave a blanket in her crate anymore.”

She read my mind. I bet fleece blankets taste delicious!

Oh well. I’ve still got my old dog cushion on my mom’s bed. I inherited a few dog beds from Mom’s first dog, the sainted Keesha. They’re tough. Even my determined little teeth can’t destroy them.

Life could be worse, although I wish my mom would stop telling the whole world about me. People will get the wrong idea. I’m actually a member of royalty who deserves the utmost respect.

Brrr…doesn’t the park look ghostly? Of course my mom plays with the photoshop settings on these photos. Here I’m getting a nice butt rub from Lindsay, the unofficial mayor of the dog park.
A nice touch on a chilly night.

Lindsay makes sure I'm spoiled rotten on a cold winter night.

Look who’s on a home page – top story of Your Organizing Business! Our own housemate. My mom wrote a blog post about how starting a business is not unlike adopting a cat. To illustrate, she used the photo of – who else? The cat who inspired the story: our own expensive adoptee.

Brr! It was cold last night. My mom took me to the park mostly because she likes connecting with the community of regulars. Sue was here with her dog, Jack.

Notice that both Sue and Jack are bundled up in nice warm winter coats. My mom was wearing her 15-year-old parka. “I wonder if Eddie Bauer will fix the zipper?” she mused. “It keeps getting snagged.”

You’ll notice me on the wall. I’m the one who’s naked.

Winter night in dog park with Sue and Jack

Ophelia is a 15-pound, 11-year old cat. As you can see, she’s still pretty frisky, especially when my mom adds some catnip to her favorite toy. We were hoping for more gymnastics. I gotta admit it: Ophelia has some really cool moves.

Thank goodness dogs don’t do drugs. We canine princesses have to maintain our dignity.

Brr! It was cold out there. My mom took this photo as I took a moment to explore my surroundings…and see if there’s anything interesting to eat here.

Here’s our neighborhood. Mom took this picture Tuesday afternoon, November 23, as we went for our walk. That sign read “23 degrees,” my mom says.  It was mid-afternoon and usually the streets would be filled with cars. Today it was blissfully empty.

I wanted to keep going, but she reminded me, “Gracie, you’ve had your walk with your Aunt Sara. And it’s slippery. No pulling today!”

Last night I moved really fast for our final evening walk. I knew my mom absolutely did not want to walk in the cold and the sidewalks were getting icy.

“Thank you, Gracie,” my mom said. “You’ve almost made up for stealing two helpings of cat food. I hope we can walk to the Mud Bay store tomorrow.”

My mom was wandering around downtown without me, which means she’s liable to stumble across things she won’t notice when I’m there. I demand complete attention. Otherwise I nibble whatever’s on the sidewalk, jump on friendly people walking by and fulfill my mission to rid the world of motorcycles and skateboards.

My mom took a photo of this sign. She says she can relate as tourists are always getting lost. It’s an indie coffee shop called Monorail Espresso. So naturally tourists ask directions to Starbucks.

We’re not surprised. From my vantage point on my mom’s lap, I’ve watched tourists ask bus drivers for all sorts of things while we natives wait patiently to get where we’re going.

Before my mom moved to Seattle, and well before I was born, our Regrade Park was a bad place. Bad people would go there and do drugs, my mom says.

The only drugs we have are my prescribed medicines and some catnip for our feline housemates. I like a little catnip myself but I am  a sensible creature. I eat it. The  cats go nuts: they’re rolling on the floor in all sorts of undignified positions. So if that’s what humans do, count me out.

This wall originally was supposed to be a handball court and once someone had a basketball hoop. That was a long time ago.

When the park became a dog park, my mom learned, all the crime vanished. As she points out, “If you’re up to no good, you don’t want to walk through a park with large German shepherds and Rottweilers.” Frankly, I avoid the large boys myself.

Recently the park’s residents donated funds for a mural to celebrate the park. So far we’ve got the background – Seattle, what else? – and eventually dogs will be added. My name will be there somewhere because Cathy donated in my name. She didn’t ask if I’d rather have a doggie coat, an extra walk or a new toy.

I guess the mural’s okay. Today my mom heard that the artists may draw dog pictures, including a poodle. A poodle? This is a dog park for mixed breed royalty, like me. We run the gamut from purebreds to … well, dogs like me who have several breeds integrated into a pleasing, perfect mix. Words like “mongrel” and “mutt” are not allowed in my presence.

My mom gets all knotted up around this time of year, which means I get to earn my keep as Official Stress Relief source. It’s not a role I chose when I got adopted.

Here’s what happens. My mom Cathy hates to drive. That’s why she moved to a city. She rents out her garage space.

Okay, she’s weird. She actually loves riding buses. She would rather ride buses than cabs. “The drivers gab on their cell phones,” she says,”or I have to talk to them and listen to their political views. On a bus I get to read or sleep. We help the environment. What’s not to like?”

I like buses in Seattle too. I get to sit on my mom’s lap and look out the window. The bus drivers like me. Other passengers fuss over me.

But then we go visit her friends. When it’s time to go home, my mom wants to take the bus. “It’s safe,” she says. “It’s free because I have a pass. It’s very comfortable and I can sleep or catch up on my email via cell phone. And it’s usually faster than driving because buses barrel through the lights and barge past the cars. What’s the problem?”

The problem is, her friends get upset. “It’s dark. It’s a holiday. We can’t let you take the bus.”

My mom won’t let them drive her. “If anything happened on a dark holiday night,” she says, “I’d never forgive myself. Anyway, why should they make a long car trip? The bus is 2 blocks away.”

So she ends up either refusing the invitation (even though she likes going and the friends enjoy having her over) or calling a cab that costs almost $40 (plus listening to the driver’s cell phone chatter and having to explain that “the dog is friendly and doesn’t shed much”) and resenting the whole thing.

Today she was discussing the problem with my Aunt Sara, the dogwalker, while I waited patiently to get going. Aunt Sara is usually on her side, but this time she said, “No way. I won’t let friends take a bus, especially on a holiday.”

Aargh. My mom hates it when she can’t change people’s minds. See, if I’d waited long enough, I’d have been adopted by a rich owner with a couple of Mercedes who really liked to drive…