My mom couldn’t resist reading a new book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother by Amy Chua. This book has drawn all sorts of controversy from major media, including the New York Times and Wall Street Journal.

Amy Chua, a professor at Yale Law School, was determined to raise her daughters the Chinese way. That meant getting all A’s in school, no sleepovers, no participating in activities that wouldn’t lead to gold medals (or the equivalent) and generally no fun. Amy’s daughters excelled at music, one on violin and the other on piano. Well, they had no choice: Amy stood over them and watched as they practiced.

A lot of readers and reviewers were critical of Amy’s mothering style. My mom was a little wistful. “I wish I’d had a mom who was more like that,” she says. “Maybe I’d be more accomplished. I could play an instrument. For sure I’d have a cleaner, more orderly household.”

True. As the resident dog, I know when it’s time to avoid certain sensitive subjects. When it comes to me, she’s reasonably strict. If I refuse to walk, she drags me. She even carries me from the elevator to our own condo door. I rather enjoy that. But she’s a softie, too. When I first moved in, she said, “Dogs don’t sleep with people.” From the vantage point of my own cushion on the foot of her bed, in close proximity to the fat Ophelia, I try to look respectful as we drift off to sleep every evening. Ophelia just looks smug.

My mom has directed my attention to page 108 of this book, where Amy Chua writes about their dog, Coco, a white Samoyed.

Coco, Amy writes, “got cuter by the day. She had the same strange effect on all four of us. Just looking at her lifted our spirits. This was true even though all my ambitions for her had been replaced by a single dynamic. She would look at me with her pleading chocolate almond eyes — and I would do whatever she wanted…”

Well, why not?

Amy adds on page 109, “It didn’t upset me that I had revised my dreams for Coco - I just wanted her to be happy. I had finlly come to see that Coco was an animal, with intrinsically far less potential than [my daughers]. Although it is true that some dogs are on bomb squads or drug-sniffing teams, it is perfectly fine for most dogs not to have a profession or even any special skills.”

Well, that shows Amy does have a sense of humor, contrary to the comments of some reviewers, my mom says. But I am a little indignant. What dog doesn’t have special skills? My skills are looking cute, prancing, and snuggling.

And although I may not have a formal profession, my life does have a purpose. I am responsible for giving many people a much-needed “dog fix” in their lives. Our building security guard says, “She makes my day.” The restaurant owner next door spends several minutes giving me a good massage whenever he sees me. And every so often a total stranger will ask to pat me, thanking my mom for the privilege.

“Gracie, I think your life has more meaning than most people’s,” my mom likes to say, a little wistfully. She’s not known for being warm and fuzzy herself. That’s my cue to look up at her adoringly and try to be on good behavior for at least three minutes. See? Who says I don’t have a job?

A few days ago we went to the dog park. After going to Magnuson with my Aunt Sara, I’ve become quite spoiled. Regrade Park is okay if you’re desperate, but it’s just not Magnuson. No water. No beach. No grass trails. And definitely not the dogs I’m used to playing with in my own pack.

On this day, a dog named Sheba jumped on me when I was just entering the park. Sheba’s owner, Ed, recognized me. We hadn’t seen him for awhile. He was giving me a nice welcoming massage when Sheba got jealous.

Needless to say I was somewhat traumatized. I wanted to go home. But my tough mom insisted, “Gracie, you have to get over this. Hang in there awhile! Find a nice small dog to play with.”

Yeah, right. Instead I jumped up on the wall to join my best park friend, Lindsay. Lindsay understands me. She gives me treats and butt rubs. And she protects me. See how I’m sitting? I’m firmly here and not moving. Yeah, there’s a cute little dog here. Who cares? I won’t budge till my mom gives up and says we can go home.

My mom had a contractor come do some work on her kitchen and bathroom. Since he was connected to two people she knows and trusts, she left him alone while she went off to one of her events this evening.

And since he’s been a dog owner, she said, “Just put Gracie in her crate when you leave.” She figured if he can remodel a home he can figure out how to put a dog into a crate.

Wrong.

He decided to show some initiative. He left me alone with one of our favorite cat cushions. I loved it.

When my mom came home the crate was filled with this cottony stuff. “I hope you didn’t eat it,” she said to me in a very stern tone.

Then she took this photo.

I guess I’ll be going commando again next time, as discussed in this earlier post.

Recently my mom read me a story from the Wall Street Journal. If you’re human you can read it here.

Apparently obesity is as serious for dogs and cats as smoking is for humans. The article had lots of stories about fat dogs and cats, including overweight dogs who were put on diets after they were adopted.

Frankly, I don’t worry about obesity. My mom watches my waist line, along with my sharp-eyed Aunt Sara. As soon as anybody says, “Getting a little chunky there, Gracie?” I’m in trouble. But I get tons of exercise and my mom doles out my crunchies with a measuring cup, just like the vet said.

Ophelia, on the other hand, is what we used to call a tubby tabby. She doesn’t eat that much. She only gets to eat when I’m out of the house or locked in my crate, because otherwise I steal her food. She can’t leap up to the counter the way Creampuff can.

My mom refuses to worry. “Remember Tiger?” she says. “For years everybody told me that cat was too fat. They warned me she’d die prematurely. When she finally headed for that great sandbox in the sky, she was a good 20 years old.”

Tiger was tough. My mom adopted her in Canada. “Probably a Saskatchewan barn cat,” she likes to say.

Ophelia, on the other hand, comes from a shelter in Seattle, where her family probably got tired of dealing with a spoiled rotten feline and dumped her off. After a whole month of living in a small cage, she is our most appreciative housemate. She actually grovels. Very undignified for a cat. For my mom’s sake I hope she lives a long time. We’ve given up trying to put her on a diet.

Almost done with the new dog park mural.

This wall used to be a handball court. It’s still a dog ball court. Dog owner still throw balls against it and the concrete is a play area for dogs to chase tennis balls.

Just a few years ago, before my mom came to Seattle, this park was notorious for drugs. Apparently nobody would enter the park. People hated to walk past it. The city tried different solutions but nothing worked till they added the dogs. As my mom likes to say, “Nobody’s gonna come in and deal drugs if they have to walk past a couple of big German shepherds.”

To be honest, most of the regulars in the dog park are not crazy about this mural. It’s a little too cutesy for us.But did you notice an important feature: names of the dogs are painted along the sides! We contributed to the mural so our names go up.

My name is just above the orange fencing, which will be long gone by the time you read this. It’s not really sideways. My mom just can’t hold a camera straight.

They squeeze themselves into boxes like this one.

Here’s our ditziest housemate Creampuff. When you don’t have a lot of brainpower, you have to go with cute. You gotta admit: she’s good at “cute.”

Ophelia, our plump and domineering housemate, refuses to drink water from a normal dish.

At first she would sit next to my mom and drink my mom’s water. My mom is pretty easygoing when it comes to animals but she balked at finding cat hair in her ice water.

So she set up two cups of water for the cats. She keeps them filled.

We think about getting a fountain for Ophelia. But my mom says she has to draw the line somewhere. For me, it’s a coat that I don’t need (but would add another twenty degrees of cuteness). And for now, Ophelia’s drinking from a glass that’s definitely not empty.

When I first moved in with Cathy, she put a nice cushion in my crate. Then she realized the cushion would get yucky and hard to clean so she put down some nice blankets.

Alas, one day she left me alone with a couple of delicious towels … and I do mean delicious. See that big pile of green threads? That used to be a towel.

So now I go bare in my crate. Just me, a bowl of water and a kong toy. isn’t that pathetic? Shouldn’t I turn myself in as a poor miserable dog with an inadequate owner?

Okay, my mom reminds me, let’s get real. She usually adds some peanut butter to my kong toy before she goes out. I only get peanut butter when I’m in my crate so I’ve fallen for the old trick. Now I associate peanut butter with the crate and I jump right in, bare and all.

Oh yes, the water is fresh. And I’m rarely in the crate for more than 4 hours at a time, which means I’m rarely alone, ever.

My mom reminds me that I eat good food, get regular outings at Magnuson Park with my Aunt Sara, and go everywhere she’s allowed to take me. And when I sigh heavily as I enter my crate, she threatens to pin up this photo.

Since we moved to Belltown, we live near lots of good restaurants. My mom complains, “Every time I go out, I have to walk past one of the best bakeries in Seattle.” Today she bought a loaf of good healthy vegan bread and proceeded to make some toast.

“Soup and toast for lunch,” she said.

Being a dog, i don’t do lunch. I’m lucky to get breakfast and dinner. The sainted Keesha, my mom’s first dog, just got dinner, once a day. Period. And she slept on the floor, too.

So when Aunt Sara came to take me for my walk, I dashed back and grabbed a piece of my mom’s toast for me. Mmm…. delicious!

I got about two bites before my mom realized what I was doing. I didn’t even get to finish. Is that fair?

“Gracie is a high maintenance dog,” my mom sighed, as Aunt Sara finally got me leashed up and ready to go.

Well, as a royal canine princess I deserve some extra maintenance. Besides, my mom needs to stay on her diet. It’s my job to help. I know, it’s a tough sacrifice, but someone’s got to do it.