Mom says today was the ultimate in urban living for a canine — and for her, too. She was behind schedule so we flagged down a Yellow Cab to take me to the Dog Lounge.

We CUPPIEs know how to ride in a cab. I sat straight on my mom’s lap, looking out the window, and didn’t budge. The driver likes dogs (otherwise he wouldn’t have stopped for us). I started to help him by licking the window, but my mom was horrified. “Gracie,” she said, “you don’t need to wash the windows.”

I spent a delightful morning being pampered with a workout in the Big Dog area, followed by a bath, pedicure and ear trim. Summer gave me a beautiful red and white bandanna to wear home. Everybody on the bus made a fuss over me. “Such a well-behaved dog,” they said. “So beautiful.” It was a community of urban bus riders. And all created by me.

“What’s her name?”

“Gracie. Amazing Gracie. Or Princess Gracie.”

“What’s her breed?”

“All American Mutt,” my mom says proudly.

Come on, Mom. You’re a copywriter. Can’t you come up with something more…regal?

Yeah, right.

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

My mom, Cathy, doesn’t mind spending money on me. She’ a very generous owner. I get trips to the dog park and outings with my Aunt Sara. I eat high quality dog food (when my tummy isn’t doing the tango…otherwise I have to eat yukky rice). I have a kind vet who keeps reminding Cathy that I’m a great dog. And the folks at the Downtown Dog Lounge adore me. They use me for temperament testing when a new dog comes.

As soon as the weather gets just the least bit chilly, all the dogs in the park start dressing up. They have little coats and sweaters. They look so cute! One dog at the Lounge wears pink with ruffles, to match his mom’s color scheme. Adorable.

But do I have a coat? Ha.

During my first winter with Cathy, we had some really cold days. Brr! So my mom called the vet.

“Does Gracie really need a coat?”

“Is she shivering? Does she seem comfortable? Then it’s optional.”

“Good,” my mom said. “I can’t imagine stuffing her into a sweater every time we go out.”

So I’m the only naked dog you’ll see on the bus.

It’s hard to argue. Cathy is not exactly into fashion herself. Her idea of dressing up is wearing her best pair of shorts (in summer) or her favorite sweats (winter). And on really special occasions, she’ll break out a new pair of running shoes.

The good news is: We live near a wonderful clothing store, Peridot. The young women who work there are dog-friendly. I always say hello to the resident dog, Scout. And they save Cathy’s butt when she has to look presentable. Last week she had to give a presentation and they sold her a coat dress (do I have to say it was on sale?) and told her how to accessorize it. Here she is, looking about as presentable as she gets.

Arf! Gracie here.

I was having a pleasant nap when my mom woke me up, exclaiming, “This is nonsense.” When I looked up inquiringly, she explained she was reading about some celebrity’s latest escapade with a car and a DUI.

“If I were a celebrity, going to a party,” my mom told me, “I would have a chauffeured limo standing by to take me home. That way I could drink as much as I wanted.”

I cocked an ear.

“OK, Gracie,” my mom admitted. “I hate parties. Everybody teases me about how little I drink. And when I go out, it’s close enough to take a cab home. Or even the bus.”

Bus? My ears perked up. Now we’re talking. I love riding buses. I get to sit in my mom’s lap and everybody tells me I’m such a beautiful dog.

“She’s a mutt,” my mom Cathy tells the other passengers. “But she thinks she’s a princess. It’s like living with Paris Hilton.”

Me? What’s this mutt stuff? I am a princess. And I don’t demand more than any other rescue dog.

Good thing I’m going to the dog lounge today. They recognize my royal blood and treat me accordingly. They set me up on the couch and feed me treats all day long. They let me play in the back with the Big Dogs. When I scratch on the door to the front, they say, “Oh it’s Gracie. Come on in, sweetheart. You can help us run the reception desk.”

That’s the way a rescue dog should be treated.

Arf! Mom is off to her gym and then it’s my turn.

Arf! Gracie here.

Seattle Weekly published an article about bad passengers….the kind who drive bus drivers crazy.

My mom was delighted. She’s tired of all those articles complaining about bus drivers. Most, she says, are saints to put up with everything.

And, she said as she pointed to the article, “you’ll notice there isn’t one complaint here about dogs on buses!”

My mom and I have a little game. When we get to the bus stop on Bell Street, near the park, we go to the front door so we’ll be ready to leave as soon as the bus stops. We wait behind the yellow line and my mom says, “Sit!”

Of course I make a big production of sitting proudly on command. Everybody oohs and ahs.

Did you know that dogs who can do a good “sit” have higher self-esteem than those who don’t? Well, my self-esteem is over the top.

My mom has many issues (from the canine perspective) but self-esteem isn’t one of them. She always says to the driver (and anyone in hearing distance): “Now, isn’t this a well-behaved dog?”

Nobody argues.

[My mom wrote this before I took over the blog]

Downtown in the ride-free zone, I hop on a bus for the library. The hill from Third to Fourth Avenue is dauntingly steep. If I’m on on the #2 — which stops right there — I’ve learned to get off earlier and walk or grab the first bus heading south on Fifth Avenue.

Today I’m on a bus with one of those mysterious three-digit numbers, which means he’s headed to an outlying area I’ve never heard of.

“Do you stop at Spring or Seneca?” I ask the driver.

“I stop at Spring.” He’s a tall, slim man with glasses, very friendly.

“Well, your sign says express, so I wondered…”

“The word express is a misnomer,” he says. “Downtown everybody’s a local.”

“Misnomer? Did you say misnomer? Are you a moonlighting graduate student?”

He laughs. Earlier he did indeed get a graduate degree in one of the language study areas, but he’s been driving for sixteen years, he tells me. He likes the job. It’s a bad job to hate, he says. You have to like it.

“I’d be a truck driver myself,” I say, “if I were a better driver. But I don’t like driving in the rain, or on bridges or tunnels.”

“Truck driving? Too much time away from home,” he says, and we wave good-by as I get off, right in front of the Fifth Avenue entrance to the library.

[My mom Cathy wrote this entry before I took over the blog.]

When I tell people I don’t drive, they first assume I can’t afford a car.

Actually, up to August 2005, I had a wonderful Toyota Corolla. I sold it four days after moving here, through Craigslist.

Why? I really don’t like to drive through rain, traffic, bridges and tunnels. I’m a cowardly driver: in traffic, everyone else gets to go ahead of me. I brake a lot on bridges and tunnels.

Once I was braver. I learned to drive in San Francisco and drove a VW there for years. When I moved back, years later, to attend grad school at UC Berkeley, I had a little 5-speed Nissan Sentra - a 1985 box. I drove across the Bay Bridge almost every day and later drove back and forth to Chico, California, where I taught for three semesters while finishing my PhD.

I kept it for 11 years and sold it in Canada. The locks broke and I was moving to Philadelphia, a bad place for an unlocked car. The Nissan’s new owner, a woman pilot who lived in the bush, she had no need for locks (and she could repair the car herself). For all I know, the car still runs around the Canadian wilderness.

When I moved to Florida in 1998 I bought a Toyota Corolla with air conditioning, automatic transmission and 4 doors. It seemed so luxurious! Four doors seemed excessive till I got Keesha, my very first dog. Forty-five pounds with extra fur on top.

I drove all up and down I-95 which was terrifying. Lots of tailgating drivers who made interesting gestures when I pointed to the rearview mirror.

I drove to New Mexico, where I lived for four years. Almost every month I went to Tucson, Arizona, which is one of the most beautiful drives in the entire country and maybe the world. Southwest drivers are kind. They signal for lane changes. They rarely tailgate. They pull over during thunderstorms, which is good, because the roads flood easily and even SUV’s can hydroplane.

I drove to Santa Fe where my car was rear-ended by a driver who admitted she wasn’t paying attention. Amazingly, the insurance paid everything and her company paid my deductible.

But I couldn’t wait to stop driving. Hence my move to Seattle. Driving four days in a car packed with 2 cats and a 40-pound dog convinced me: I don’t want to do this anymore.

And I haven’t.

Seattle Buses