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.

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.

Well, I guess my mom can relax a little more when I go out. The folks at dog.com sent us a new door for my crate, with a latch that closes nice and tight. I can feel secure!

My mom managed to unwrap the package. Then she looked at the old door.

“How the [blank] do I get this thing off?” she wondered. “Maybe I can bribe your Aunt Sara to help. And your Uncle Lance may be stopping by too.”

Fortunately my mom was out this morning when my Aunt Sara came to pick me up. When Cathy returned, she first thought I had escaped. The door was open and I was gone. Then she realized Aunt Sara had come a little early..and the new door was on the crate!

“I guess you know by now,” Mom said ruefully when Aunt Sara dropped me off this afternoon. “I’m totally challenged mechanically.”

“I figured I might as well get that door on,” Aunt Sara said tactfully.

My mom wants you to know it’s not age. Just the opposite. She’s much more dexterous now than she ever was. Now she knows what a Phillips screwdriver is, although I’m not sure I’d want to watch her try to use one.

My mom Cathy just got back from her conference this morning. My Aunt Sara dropped me off at home this afternoon via her “pet taxi” service. Mom told Aunt Sara, “I took a couple of days to relax and have a mini-vacation. I need to do that more often.”

Yes! I absolutely agree. I came home with a note from the Barking Lounge, reporting what I’d done. I don’t fetch. But I did cuddle with everyone and I got some serious nap time and exercise. If that’s a vacation, give me more.

Best of all I got to escape our feline housemates. Ophelia was very upset with Cathy. She’s strutting around the apartment, emitting yowls of discontent. Creampuff of course is so ditzy she didn’t even notice anybody was gone.

Now I’ll get to hear Ophelia’s story. Just what I don’t need. Time for another nap. I guess life could be worse and anyway I need to spend the next week or two acting Very Grateful For My Owner. Cathy just saw the boarding bill. “Might as well send you to the Four Seasons,” she said.

I have no idea what that means. But I sat up when she reminded all of us, “You are lucky to have a good home. These days the shelters don’t have room for all the abandoned animals.”

Yes. Definitely not a week to press the mom for extra treats, let alone a winter coat and those cute little booties. If the mom won’t wear high heels, and she loves her ancient parka, we know who’s not getting a new wardrobe this year.

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?

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.

My mom’s copywriting mentor, Lorrie Morgan-Ferrero, has been considering adding a new dog to her California household. As far as we can tell, they have just one dog and one cat. Apparently a pit bull entered their lives, complete with snarly personality, kennel cough and a complete set of …er…male equipment.

When last reported (via Facebook), Bandit was caged in an isolation ward with no balls and the cone of shame. My mom couldn’t help it; she laughed out loud. Then she read Lorrie’s next post, about dropping a few grand on this dog before he was even a member of the household. She laughed even harder.

It wasn’t a “This is funny laugh.” It was like, “Isn’t this what happens with ALL those free animals?”

“Remember Ophelia?” she asked me. “I got that cat for $11 because she’s so old. Some bargain! She had huge vet bills for liver disease and dental surgery. And we thought she’d never adjust to life with you and Creampuff.”

Ophelia has chosen this moment to sit on her favorite chair and shed a few more bushels of fur. Mom has a special chair she’s turned over to the cats in hopes of saving her other furniture, like her beautiful new recliner. Did we tell you Ophelia is a beautiful long-haired cat? She looks like the cat in the Fancy Feast commercials, my mom says. “And she’s so sweet!”

Yuk. If I were a cat I’d toss up a hairball to express my true feelings. Since I’m not, I’ll remind Mom that she got off easy with me, especially now that I’m older and no longer chew up everything I see. I’ll distract her from thoughts of my wonderful Aunt Sara, who takes me to the park twice a week, giving the whole family a much needed break.

Bandit is literally one lucky dog. If I lived in Los Angeles I’d want Lorrie to adopt me too. Umm…does Bandit need a new chew toy? I’d suggest sending down one of our useless feline housemates but my mom just added a bag of my favorite treats to the dog food delivery order.

My mom says, “A tired dog is a good dog, but I’m not sure an exhausted dog is a great dog.”

Yesterday I played in the big park with my Aunt Sara and today I’m into big sleeping. My mom dragged me to the local downtown park. She’s still trying to get me to enjoy going there. The good part is, she kept giving me treats. Lots of treats! Eventually, though, she realized I wasn’t going to play. So she took me for a walk. And now I’m back on the cushion again.

“You need to be tired, Gracie,” the mom said, preparing to head off for bed herself. Tomorrow you’ve got lots of time alone in the crate. I’m off to Game 1 of the WNBA championship series, but first I’d like to join at least part of the Zumba class.”

That’s the mom for you: dedicated as ever. I’m even more tired just thinking about her bopping around at Zumba. Frankly, a little crate time might not be a bad thing. Besides, if her team wins, she’ll be in a terrific mood. We know what that means, don’t we? More treats!

My mom just posted a note to Facebook about my Regrade Park problem. I  no longer want to hang around the park these days. Almost as soon as we arrive, I’m ready to go home. Of course, Cathy gets frustrated. She likes to chat with the park regulars and watch me run around.

All sorts of people suggested she talk to an animal communicator – someone who can read my mind.

Get real. Remember when we hired the cat shrink? My mom had to get her money back.

We already talk to the mom.

Ophelia speaks loudest. The fat fuzzball is deeply grateful for being adopted. She loves living here. She adores my mom. She’s always coming over for a pat. She doesn’t even mind being brushed as long as it doesn’t go on too long.  She never complains and she waits patiently till the coast is clear so she can gobble up her crunchies. She looks adoringly at my mom with those big round eyes and she commandeered the best spot on my mom’s bed.

Creampuff is more like, “Hey, I’d rather be an outdoor jungle cat. But every so often I’ll favor you with a rub or a yowl. Just keep my dish full at all times.” Creampuff can jump to the kitchen counter and eat anytime she wants. She explores closets and has a tendency to get shut up behind closed doors.  Ophelia’s too big to do any of those things.

Me? I still think I should have taken a better picture for the Internet. If I’d held out a little longer, maybe Bill Gates would have adopted me. Unconditional love? That’s just fine for other dogs. Mine is conditional on the quality of my treats, my walks and my place on the mom’s bed.

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