New President-Elect Barack Obama has shown good sense already. He promised his daughters a puppy. My mom read this article aloud to me.

Frankly, I think Obama should forget about getting a puppy. The White House is no place for house training, crying and mess. He should do what my mom Cathy does: get a nice full-grown, mixed-breed dog from a shelter.

At least he’s not getting a cat, like the Ford administration. There’s hope for the country.

When Cathy adopted me, she had trouble seeing me as the magnificent Canine Urban Princess (CUPPIE) I am. She was so accustomed to her First Dog, Keesha, a keeshond-chow mix with fuzzy hair, pointy ears and huge paws.

She actually referred to me as a “homely little mutt.”

Then I started getting compliments from people who saw my photos. Mary Lynn of The Writers Center said, “She’s beautiful! Look at those eyes.” Cathy knew the Lynns when she lived in Silver City, New Mexico. They taught her a lot about writing. They seem nice, for cat people.

And total strangers said, “What a cute dog.” Or even, “She’s gorgeous.”

Cathy’s attention perked up when several different people said, “Now there’s a dog who looks like a real dog.”

Huh?

Cathy has always been fascinated by social psychology, so she remembered prototype theory. When we think of categories, we tend to identify prototypes associated with that category. A robin is the protoype for “bird.” The more an object looks like a robin, the more we’ll categorize it as a bird.

And the more a dog looks like me, the more it’s a dog, right? Hmm…what about those furry little mops who entertain me at the dog park? Or those Great Danes who look a lot like horses?

One thing’s for sure: Nobody would ever confuse me with a cat.

And I’ll take my compliments where I can get them.

On Monday afternoon my mom dashed into the UrbanVet office. She carried a cage with our ailing (and wailing) housemate, Tiger. Cathy was supposed to give fluids to Tiger. She gave up Saturday after stabbing her own finger.

Cathy is terrified of human doctors so she panicked. It took several emails from an online support group to convince her she was going to live.

So what was I doing at the vet? Mom took me along to our vet because she thought I had been paying entirely too much attention to my … um…rear parts. No comment.

The vet tech poked around in places that are never publicly mentioned by Canine Urban Princesses (CUPPIES) like me. Yuk.

But as we were leaving, that nice Dr. Kira stopped by to say hello. She adores me. She told Cathy, “I’m so glad you adopted Gracie.”

Me too, most of the time.

But then Dr. Kira looked at me with a whole different expression.

“Gracie, you’re getting a little chunky here. Better watch it.”

“Right,” my mom said. “She gained about 7 pounds since I adopted her. Time for a diet.”

Oh no. The D-word. Just what I don’t need. I get so much exercise…what more do they want?

This time, I didn’t get a treat on the way out.

What’s wrong with this picture? That’s a 19-year old cat, sitting on her old cushion, looking smug. It’s Tiger, the Queen of our household.

Sometimes I try to play with her. She’s such a grump! She just swats me with her paw and yowls tha raspy meow. Since she’s old, she’s fussier about everything.

My mom ordered a couple of cases of canned food because Tiger won’t eat dry food anymore. I think she’s lost her sense of smell.

Cathy adores Tiger. They’ve been together since spring of 1994. More than some people have been married.

Tiger used to sleep next to Mom’s pillow. Now she prefers to sleep in the closet. But during the day, she likes to sit near my mom.

When my mom works on her laptop on the couch, Tiger sleeps on the armrest next to her. When my mom eats a snack (a lot more often than she should, but don’t tell her I said that), Tiger tries to share.

“When I get old, I want someone to spoil me,” Mom says. “So I’ll spoil Tiger as much as I can.”

How about spoiling me too, Mom? I’m bigger. Double the karma.

Did you see the latest dog news? Some idiot decided to clone a dog named Missy.

OK, Missy is adorable. Her clones seem to have the same delightful personality. But who needs it?

My nerdy mom, Cathy, said, “Gee, Gracie, I could have cloned Keesha. The perfect dog.” She looks at me sternly. “Keesha never, ever chewed. I could leave her in a room full of socks and woolly hats and nothing would be touched.”

Yeah, right. But she has selective memory syndrome. She forgets that Keesha terrorized the cats and barked every time Cathy came home.

But I wonder: if cloning were available and affordable, would I be here, sleeping peacefully on her couch after yesterday’s 2-hour run along the shores of Lake Washington, with a handful of other dogs and my wonderful Aunt Sara? Would I be enjoying nights on Cathy’s bed, gourmet treats and the joys of torturing our feline housemates?

Would Cathy even be writing this blog? Would she have found another Canine Urban Princess - a CUPPIE - whose thoughts were as newsworthy as mine?

And where would I be now…hanging out in a foster home, waiting for someone to adopt an “older” dog?

So who needs clones? Just go find a rescue group and adopt a dog. My foster mom told Cathy all about me…well, almost. My foster mom said, “Gracie likes to sit on her cushion and chew on her chew toys.” True. But she didn’t add that I also enjoy chewing socks, hats and even an occasional book, business card or even a bank statement for dessert.

So I’m glad Cathy had to go find a new dog instead of cloning her old one. Anyway, she says, accepting the inevitable: “Who’s going to treat all their dogs the same? Even if I’d cloned Keesha, I’d probably be a different owner. I always said I’d never let a dog sleep on my couch.”

Yeah, right.

When a Canine Urban Princess (a CUPPIE) gets tired, she retreats to her own private castle. Mine looks like an airline crate on the outside.

I inherited my crate from Keesha, Cathy’s first dog.

When Cathy adopted Keesha, about 10 years ago, she dreaded the idea of a crate. “Jail for dogs,” she shuddered.

But Keesha tortured the cats every time Cathy went out. One day Keesha tore a hole in a neighbor’s screen door, thinking the kindly neighbor was dog-napping instead of dog-sitting. Cathy immediately invested in a queen-sized crate. Keesha’s whole personality changed — for the better. And Cathy became a convert.

So when I arrived, I spent a lot of time in the crate I inherited from Keesha. Thank goodness! I had time to enjoy my own space while I adjusted to my new home and family…not to mention chewing on a rubber toy filled with royal peanut butter.

My crate has become my castle. I retreat to my castle when Cathy goes out, when I’m feeling a little under the weather or when we get visitors who operate noisy machines like vacuum cleaners and rug shampooers.
I sleep on my royal blanket and dream of a world with a dog park on every corner.

When Cathy saw me on the Petfinder website, my name was Sarah. She has a human friend in Tucson named Sarah. And frankly, I don’t look like a Sarah. So she immediately named me Gracie.

I am named after Amazing Gracie, a book by Dan Dye, the founder of Three Dog Bakery. When their dog refused to eat commercial food, Dan Dye and his friends learned to cook a new kind of dog biscuit — and created an empire. Cathy loved the book — a warmly satisfying saga of dogs, serendipity and life success. And she loves the stores.

“Gracie,” she tells me, “you are named after a dog who made her owner a millionaire. And I expect you to live up to your name.”

That’s a lot of pressure to put on a dog. Here’s a photo of me, obviously stressed out by all that pressure.

My mom Cathy just signed up for a training program on info products. For her first assignment, she is supposed to ask 10 people (family, friends and colleagues) to answer three questions to uncover her core gift

Cathy hates this stuff. She’d rather write 3 info products in a weekend than ask people to help her answer these questions. Most people she knows would rather be boiled in oil than do this. And it’s just south of woo-woo land.

But since I fit into the “family” category, I thought I’d (pardon the expression) dig into these questions.

Q1: In your opinion, what do you think I’m naturally good at doing?

A: From where I sit (currently under the coffee table), I think you’re naturally good at selecting dogs. First you chose Keesha from the Broward County Humane Society and then — seven years later at the opposite end of the country — you chose me on Petfinder.

OK, you didn’t really choose me. I chose you. And yeah, I know you thought about sending me back. But who’s kidding who? Once I started sitting in your lap on the bus, I knew: we were a team.

Q2. In the past, what have you been able to rely on me for?

Food. Dog beds (one in each room…and I’ll take the sofa anytime, thank you very much). More food. Walks. Excursions to the dog park. Food. Visits to the vet. Training (we could skip this one if you get busy). A kong to chew when I’m alone in my crate. Two cats to entertain me and keep me humble. My own corner of your sofa. My big bag of chewies.

Oh yeah, did I say food?

Q3. What do you feel are my top 3 strengths and talents?

Well, I hope you’re a good copywriter, because you couldn’t make a living with your domestic skills, like housekeeping or cooking. I do my best to help by nibbling stray crumbs here and there, but you’re a challenge.

OK, here goes:

Talent #1: You learn fast. When I first got here, you said, “No dogs on the furniture..and never on my bed!” So I slept in my crate for the first few months, slurping on my peanut butter kong.

But soon you caught on to the deal I offered: no chewing your socks if I could sit on the couch. And I wouldn’t eat the cat food if I could sleep on the foot of your bed.

Hey, a deal’s a deal. You immediately saw the win-win possibilities. I knew your MBA would count for something.

Talent #2: You’re highly intuitive.

When I sit next to the door, looking pathetic, you know I need to go out…right away. When I put my head in your lap and look soulfully into your eyes, you slam the laptop closed and grab the leash. You easily predict the future of your rug if you don’t get us out to the street.

Talent #3: You’re a shameless self-promoter.

Every time we ride the bus, you tell everyone in earshot our story. All it takes is one question: “What’s her name? How old? What kind?”

You don’t hesitate. “Gracie. Five. All-American Mutt but she thinks she’s a princess. Rescued from a humane society in Bellingham. No, not a shelter - foster home. Isn’t she well-behaved? I am so proud of her…”

It gets better. We walk to the Queen Anne branch of the library. Almost always some nice person is sitting on the steps. “What a good dog,” they say.

This is my cue. I turn my Cuteness level up to Maximum Strength, snuggling and prancing around.

After the unsuspecting victim has been totally won over, you say, “Gee, do you think you could keep an eye on her for just a minute while I run in and return a book? She doesn’t like to be tied up outside and she tries to run away…”

When you come back, everybody’s smiling. The mark even thanks you for the privilege of spending time with me. You may be a great salesperson, but I’m the champ when it comes to delivering customer service.

OK, I did my part with the questions. If you’re reading this blog and you know Cathy, please volunteer to answer the questions. She won’t want to ask. I just hope she keeps writing stuff that sells. Urban dogs don’t come cheap.

Contact info here: http://www.copy-cat-copywriting.com/contact.html
OR mailto:seattlecathy@gmail.com

Yesterday I wrote about my mom’s trip to Elliott Bay Bookstore to hear Arden Moore, expert on cat and dog behavior. My mom learned a lot…too much, in my opinion.

But she couldn’t understand why Arden kept saying cat and dogs were different.

In our household, the cats are extremely sociable. Somehow they skipped the chapter in the kitty handbook that says, “Cats should be aloof.” They shamelesly run to greet Cathy when she comes home. I don’t. I am either with Cathy or else waiting patiently in my crate with my favorite kong toy.

Last year my mom bought the cats a wonderful round bed when she visited a cat show. (My mom needs to get a life. Dog parks? Cat shows?) I took over the bed. When I curl up in a round ball, I just fit.

Oh yes, I chew the catnip toy too. But don’t tell anyone.

P.S. My mom wants me to add that she knows the other folks mentioned in the Arden Moore article, Sally Deneen and Robert McClure. They lived across the street from Cathy when she lived in Florida with Keesha, her first dog, before I was even born. It’s hard to believe but my mom actually has a few human friends too.

Yesterday my mom took off for a few hours. She wanted to go a few places where I am not allowed. I don’t mind being left in my crate. For one thing, I have my favorite kong toy. I’m near a window so I catch a breeze. Best of all, my mom feels so guilty after leaving me, she takes me on a long walk when she comes home.

Sure enough, yesterday afternoon, we walked over a mile to the dog park. By evening, the weather was cool and we both enjoyed the breeze from the sea. I ran around the park for awhile, until Mom realized a big parade was happening a block away.

I hate parades. All that buzzing and honking and shouting. Last year at Seafair they shot off a cannon and I almost shot through the roof. (Back then, I was still allowed in coffee shops. Another story.)

So I sat on my furry little butt and refused to budge.

We tried one block. Even Mom decided: “Too crowded! OK, Gracie, I’ve seen a high school band before.”

She began to have second thoughts, but I won that round.

We came to a bus stop. “Good! Now we can ride home,” I said, settling down to wait.

“Oh no,” Mom said. “The schedules are all screwed up with parade. We’ll get home faster if we walk.”

“Rrr.” No way.

Some nice people came by and said, “Oh look…The dog wants to wait for a bus! Isn’t that cute? The poor dog…”

I tried to look sad and pathetic. Such a mean owner! But it was hard to look sad when my fur is all shiny and fluffy from my professional bath (not to mention the gourmet food my mom orders).

We walked. And we walked. We were exhausted. But I still had energy to chase the cats around Cathy’s living room… especially that fat tabby who thinks she owns the place. If she were human, she would be old enough to vote. And she never lets us forget.