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…

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.

Accepting a treat from Lindsay.

My mom said, “Gracie, if you don’t want to play, we’re going home. Anyway, you look tired.”

Well, I should be. Yesterday I played with a charming miniature Schnauzer from New York. I enjoyed meeting a fellow urban dog while my mom got caught up with the schnauzer’s owner on what’s happening in New York, where she’s from originally. I ran all over the park.

“Stop fussing over her,” Lindsay said. “Can I give her a treat?”

Well, does it rain in Seattle? I’m ready. Someone snapped this photo and my mom immediately said, “Can you send it to me for Gracie’s blog?”

Shortly afterward we headed for home, where I zonked out immediately. I need to get rested for tomorrow’s jaunt to the big park with my Aunt Sara. A dog’s life, right?

Leaning against a friendly person in the Dog Park

And I’m very affectionate. Here I am in Regrade Dog Park getting acquainted with someone we don’t know. She’s talking nonstop on her cell phone. She interrupts to say “yes” when my mom asks if we can use this photo in her blog.

Notice that my legs are angled so I can a good, deep lean Aahhhhhhhh……. That’s The Lean.

My mom has pointed out that I’m not exactly a one-person dog, like her first dog, the sainted Keesha. “Gracie would go home with anybody,” she says. “She barely knows who I am.”

Oh come on, mom. When you’re ready to go home, I follow you to the gate (unless somebody else gets my attention). When you pick me up from daycare, I recognize you.

But hey, I’m flexible. If a better owner came along… um, better change the subject. Let’s get out of the park and go home to dinner.

Uh oh…busted again.

Mom was talking to Aunt Sara when I was dropped off this afternoon. They were talking about ME.

“Gracie’s usually good,” Aunt Sara said. “But when you drop your guard for even a minute, she’ll try something.”

“Exactly,” my mom said. “Sometimes when we are walking along, she’ll stop suddenly. She’ll get that look like, ‘Why are you making me go on?’”

True. We have two kinds of walks. Sometimes we go on a real walk where I get exercise and Mom does her errands. But often these days I get a mini-walk so I can do my business before my mom stuffs me in my crate and goes off on her own outings.

“I think Gracie knows,” the mom said, “because I fill up her crate’s water dish just before we go on our walk. She’s a very smart dog. When we come home, she doesn’t want to go inside. People feel so sorry for her. It’s like, ‘Poor thing. She doesn’t want to go in.’”

“I know just what you mean,” my Aunt Sara said. “Gracie does a good pout. You’d think we were beating her.”

“Yeah, and she’s spoiled rotten,” the mom said. “Uh oh – what was that? Gracie, are you eating the cat food? I’d better go pick it up. See you next time.”

Okay, okay. I just decided we needed a distraction from all this talk about spoiled dogs. Now I’ll move on to my nap.

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.

Okay, here are our two feline housemates. They’re engaged in their favorite activity: eating. Ophelia may be the champion but Creampuff isn’t exactly holding back. They’re both so absorbed in feeding their furry faces. They don’t even notice they’re co-existing peacefully, side by side.

My mom loves these scenes. “See?” she says. “Even full grown cats can learn to get along.”

Yeah, yeah…so what’s the big deal? Ophelia’s been here for over 2 years now. Nobody’s gotten killed. No blood has been shed. Occasionally we hear a yowl…very rarely these days. They’re settled.

But I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more photos of these cats. Ten years from now, we will see two senior cats, side by side, and my mom will be reaching for the camera. “Oh look, Gracie! They’re getting along!” she will exclaim. Picture #1000 ready to roll.

Guest Post by Jaime Simpkins: My mom doesn’t usually allow me to run guest posts from commercial ventures unless there’s an affiliate link. where she earns money for my treats if somebody buys. We made an exception because this topic is of special interest to me.

We don’t know anything about this crate company. But we can relate to the challenge. Remember my earlier posts on locating my crate in our new home?

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Where to Locate a Crate in your Home by Jaime Simpkins

If you are thinking about owning a dog crate, you are probably wondering where in the house to put it. Your dog, being a pack animal, would prefer the part of the house where the family spends the most time while he is in the crate.

[Gracie says: "You got that right! Remember when we first moved here? My crate was in a hallway. I hated it."]

If you have more than one dog sharing the crate, it may not be so important to keep all of the family together, as crate time can still be spent with a companion.

[Gracie says:"I'm the only dog here. The cats stop by to say hello sometimes. But share a crate with a crate? No way!"]

The makers of some dog crates have gone to great lengths to make their crates look like furniture with wooden slats that can be styled to look like other furniture items. The  wood dog crate allows you to dye, lacquer, or paint the crate so that it blends in with the rest of the room. If that style of crate doesn’t particularly suit your taste or budget, try using a conventional wire crate as a shelf by putting a hard surface on top of it.

[Gracie says: "Great idea, mom! Maybe I'll get a wooden crate someday. Meanwhile, we just cover my crate with a blanket when I'm not using it and when we're home."]

Young dogs that aren’t used to spending the night crated may whimper and whine while you are trying to get your beauty sleep. If that’s the case in your household, then you may want to bring your pup’s crate into your bedroom just for one or two nights. This will give him companionship while he is becoming accustomed to his new bed. If the crate is beside your bed, you can reach down and stroke your pup if he becomes unsettled. When he is spending the night in his crate without distress, you can move the crate out of your bedroom.

[Gracie says: "My mom doesn't adopt puppies. As a senior dog, I can see why. But for my first few months with mom, I had to sleep in my crate at night. My mom wanted to be sure I was house trained. She gave me a peanut butter kong every night so I knew I was being rewarded for being a great dog. Now I sleep on the mom's bed, along with the ditzy Creampuff who jumps on and off and the fat Ophelia who takes up a LOT of room. Sometimes I'd rather be back in that crate with my peanut butter."]

Don’t forget to look around the crate when you have put it in its permanent position. Check for power cables or electrical wires, and make sure there aren’t any curtain tassels dangling into the crate. These can hurt your dog if he chews them.

Keep an eye on whether or not the crate is in direct sunlight from a nearby window, because this will be hot and uncomfortable for your dog. Similarly, avoid drafts so he doesn’t get cold.

[Gracie says: "Never fear. My mom is a fanatic. I always have a bowl of fresh water and my tough rubber toy - nothing I can destroy."]

There is no “one size fits all” perfect spot for a dog crate. You don’t want the crate in the way of your family, and you don’t want it to negatively affect your home décor. Your dog wants to be where the action is, and don’t want to feel left out. Take the time to work out a position for the crate that suits both you and your dog.

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Gracie: Thanks for the tips, Jaime! Thanks to my mom’s friend Pam Ellis, I have a great place for my crate: right in the living room where it belongs.

Maybe you’re heard the expression “fraidy-cat.” Our cats aren’t afraid of anything, except maybe the vacuum cleaner.

My mom has been worried that I’m turning into a fraidy-dog. Here’s what happened. One day we went to Regrade Park, the off-leash park that’s just two blocks away from our new home. A big dog jumped on me. I demanded to leave. We did.

Then a few days later, the same dog was back … and the same thing happened. Now I hate going to the park.

Frankly, I haven’t been crazy about that park for awhile. I’m not as young as I used to be: I’ll be eight in just two months. That’s getting into senior dog status, my mom says. So I no longer want to jump around with a bunch of high-energy younger dogs. I like sitting on the wall and letting Lindsay, Sue, Andy, William or some of the other humans make a big fuss over me. On very rare occasions, my mom allows me to accept a treat. That’s even better.

But now I tug on the leash when we walk to the park. As soon as we get there, I head right to the exit with a purposeful expression.

“Oh no, Gracie! We just got here!” my mom says. “We have to de-sensitize you.”

For help she turned to Andy, who’s a professional dog trainer. He had a great idea. Treats. LOTS of treats. “Special treats just for the park!” he said.

“Liver bits?” my mom suggested.

Yaay. I love liver bits.

My mom is no dummy, although you might wonder at times. I get peanut butter only in the crate so I love my crate. If I get liver bits only in the park, she hopes I’ll learn to love the park. I’m not so sure.

After all, my mom isn’t a great example of bravery. She’s not crazy about water, heights, shaky bridges and a bunch of other things that she won’t let me share here. When she bought a house in Florida, she got Keesha because she didn’t want to be alone in the house with just two cats. Did I mention that she also had a perfectly functioning alarm system?

“If I get another house, I’ll need a second dog,” she tells me. “You’re not ferocious enough.”

My mom’s getting older, too. Unlike me, she refuses to admit it. Yesterday she dove right into a zumba class where she was probably the oldest person by twenty years. That’s the equivalent of me joining a pack of three-year-old feisty dogs and trying to keep up.

“Don’t tell George the Fitmonkey,” she told me as she limped out the door to take me on a walk. Her hips were sore from all those “swing your booty” moves.

“When I have to give up these gym classes, I’m giving you to Bill in New York and joining the great aerobics class in the sky.”

I could say a lot but I value my treats, not to mention my regular high-priced food and walks with Aunt Sara. So I’ll leave it to my followers to fill in the blanks.