My mom admires Connie Green, an Internet empire builder. So when Connie organized a pre-conference get-together, Mom flew in to join them. She left on a 6 AM flight and arrived on time in Las Vegas.

The group posed for a photo. Connie’s in back, wearing pink, with a big warm smile. Mom’s the one on the far right, wearing a hat. She’s crouching down just a little so people can see the folks behind her. Nobody dresses up because they all work from home on the Internet .Some of them don’t even have suits anymore.

“Do I look OK, Gracie?” she asked, showing me the photo. “Not too old or too fat?”

What do I know? I am a dog, remember? I think she looks fabulous when she’s got a hand out to give me my treats.

The New York Times ran a story today about a Labradoodle who serves as combination service dog and psychiatric aide. They said the Veterans Admin will spend $300 to study the impact of service dogs.

Save your money, Dogs are natural psychiatrists. I personally keep my owner, Cathy Goodwin, sane and motivated. Without me, who knows how she’d spend her time? Would she get out of the house and do things if she didn’t have to walk me? Would she go to bed early if I weren’t waiting for her?

I am a natural social worker. I go up to strangers on buses. I snuggle up to strangers sitting on benches on the street. People pat me when they want a dog fix.

And while I may be a princess, I’m not a high-priced breed by any means. The government can save its money. There are dozens of wonderful mutts like me. If I can keep my owner in line, any dog can do anything.

My mom Cathy is an avid reader (as if you couldn’t tell). She’s also a dedicated library user. I’m not allowed in most library branches and I have no desire to go to the Central Library. Dogs are not made for revolving doors.

But my mom was infuriated by the new policy on holding books. She realizes the Seattle Public Library needs to cut back but she can’t understand their logic.

I don’t read, of course, and logic isn’t much of a dog’s specialty. But even I couldn’t miss the idiocy of a comment sent by the librarian to my mom. “We have trained librarians,” the librarian said, “who will help patrons find alternatives to the most popular books.”

In other words, this goes beyond, “Let ‘em eat cake.” It’s like saying, “When you go to the library, you want a book. Any book.”

So you say, “I want a book about dogs.”

Will the librarian say, “Well, Malcolm Gladwell’s book, What The Dog Saw, is already up to over 100 holds. But what about The Art of Racing In The Rain? That’s a great dog book.”

Mom says people want some pictures of her, not just me. But usually it’s just the two of us, and I don’t have fingers, let alone opposable thumbs. Besides, I’m a lot more photogenic than my mom.

On Wednesday my mom announced that we were going to walk up to Queen Anne. Going up is a LOT harder than going down. On the way back, my mom was so thrilled with the view she insisted we walk over and take a look. Personally, I could care less about views. I’d rather dig for something more interesting, which my mom won’t allow me to mention in this blog.

We saw some tourists taking pictures. My mom said, “If I take a picture of your family all together, can you get a picture of us?”

They said, “Sure.” Mom struck a pose and I’m looking at her, like, “What is going on here?”

It turned out they were a couple visiting their son, who is studying at University of Washington. My mom likes to give people information about Seattle because it makes her feel like an old-timer. Well, we have our fourth anniversary coming up. You’re not a newcomer, Mom. But it’s kind of cute when you play tourist.

My mom wants me to add that she hadn’t planned to have her picture taken, so she was wearing her old shorts and sweatshirt. Luckily she got her hair cut so she looks a little ore together than usual.

Please write a comment to reassure my mom that she doesn’t look as awful as she thinks. Tell her she doesn’t look old, even if you have to lie.

My mom just got her hair cut. She was so tired of fussing with the sides and dealing with frizz. So she marched into her hair stylist and said, “Cut it off! Cut it all off!”

I wasn’t there, of course. It’s illegal for dogs to hang out in hair salons. But that’s just fine. Why would I want to be there? They have cold shiny floors. There’s nothing to do. It smells funny.

My mom’s first dog, Keesha, was a guard dog. Actually she was a mix of two guard breeds – keeshond and chow – so she could be ferocious. She would rather be with Cathy on a cold cement floor than sit on a soft cushion in the next room.

Not me. Give me soft anytime.

But I like sitting on top of this ledge. Lindsay sits here, when she’s in the park, and occasionally she can be persuaded to give me a treat. She’s always good for a tummy rub or a good butt scratch.

Lindsay’s taking this picture. See how my mom’s smile looks more like a grimace? That’s because she’s within a mile of a camera, even if she reailzes she asked for it. She’s the least photogenic person on the planet.

I look like I’m bonding with my mom, don’t I? Don’t fool yourself. My nose is continuously on alert for treats and edible garbage. My mom and I disagree on the definitions of “edible” and “garbage,” but that’s another story.

This morning my mom took me out for our usual morning walk around 7 AM. Labor Day? Who cares. I need my walk.

On our way out she stopped to talk with a new neighbor and her boyfriend. They were enjoying a smoke break. (Our building is dog-friendly, no-smoking. Just the way I like it.) My mom was telling them she works at home.

“But wouldn’t you rather just retire and do nothing?”

Good grief. My mom was shaken up. “I need to start wearing more makeup,” she said, as we headed around the corner. “It’s SO depressing to have a young body and more or less young mind and get treated like an old lady…”

My mom thinks she has an old mind because she doesn’t know any of the new music. She hates it. She has spent a lifetime listening to classical country and classical concert music. Period. She tries to like jazz. She just discovered Queen song “We Will Rock You” at the WNBA game. People kept a straight face when she asked, “Where did that come from? Oh, the 70s? I was still on George Jones back then…”

True, my mom wore her yucky old sweats because it seemed chilly. I sense a new wardrobe and hairstyle may be coming. My mom needs to remember that to a young person, everybody looks old. She claims you can get senior passes at movies starting in your 40s because the teenagers at the box office can’t tell 40 from 60.

Meanwhile, my mom plans to spend the whole day in hiding. Me too…unless we get a dog park break. Nobody at the dog park is into fashion. I don’t even wear my new bandanna.

My mom just got a sales pitch for one of those water fountains for dogs. She said she’d consider it but she tries to avoid purchasing anything that has moving parts. She just a new DVD player (following the long-awaited demise of the old one) from Amazon. Her neighbor came over to help her hook it up.

Yep, my mom is the most mechanically challenged person I’ve ever met. Fortunately for me, my needs involve food dishes, dog beds, leashes and dog crates. She’s safe.

But that got her wondering. How much water does a dog need?

One site said 1 cup for every 5 pounds for dogs under 20 lbs. My new queen-sized figure doesn’t qualify. The rest of the notices give amounts in milliliters and my mom is clueless.

“Just to be sure,” my mom said, “I’ll just make sure your water dish is always clean and filled with fresh water. Like I’ve always done.”

At least she admits I’m the easy member of the household. The cats don’t like to drink water from a dish. They insist on drinking from cups or glasses. Naturally, those cups are easy to knock over. Our kitchen floor gets wet. Mom walks in and starts using some words that are not fit for my innocent canine ears.

See, mom, cats are useless. I’ve been telling you that for years.

Mom took a picture of me where she claims I’m looking guilty. Fortunately the camera cable is gone so she can’t publish it anywhere. See the previous post.

I am an innocent, misunderstood dog. My mom takes too many pictures, especially featuring me in compromising positions. She needs to get a life.

My Uncle Lance has the right idea. He won’t allow her to take his picture. He won’t even let us use his real name. I don’t always want to be seen in public with my mom either, especially since she keeps forgetting to call for a hair appointment.  Now she is wait-listed for another month.

So I am not guilty of destroying property by chewing. I am actually helping my mom by protecting her from her own devices.

My mom is truly a fitness fanatic. She works out three or four times a week at the gym. When the weather’s decent, she takes me for walks.

In fact, that’s why she adopted me. When she took me for my first check-up at the vet, she wasn’t there for my health. She was there for her own benefit. “Will Gracie be able to go on long walks with me?” she asked the vet. “That’s why I want a dog.”

From the beginning, I was set up to be an accessory. I’m not loved for my self and my scintillating personality.

As if that weren’t enough. Cathy worries that I don’t get enough exercise. So every Sunday, while she works out at the gym, I’m in the Downtown Dog Lounge of Seattle. Fortunately the staff is not nearly as fanatical. They sneak me treats and let me snooze on the couch while Cathy thinks I’m running around chasing other dogs. I play with my special group of friends. I help out at the reception desk. They use me for temperament-testing when new dogs apply to join our pack.

This morning Cathy warned me, “Gracie, I’m off to the ballet this evening. I want to see my favorite female dancer, Kaori Nakamura, perform the lead in Swan Lake and this will be my last chance. So you’ll be crated up for at least for hours. Better be tired.”

No problem, Mom. I am zonked. I slept all afternoon. We’re both getting older. I don’t need to run marathons anymore. And a few more treats won’t wreck my midlife figure.

Good thing Mom didn’t have human kids. They’d be ready for boot camp by the time they reached college.

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Last week my mom said, “Gracie, we’re going for a walk! We will take a bus to the top of Queen Anne Hill and walk down.”

Then, as she got ready, she said, “Hmm. These jeans are a little snug. We’d better walk both ways.”

Great. Her jeans feel tight so we have to walk? She couldn’t even begin to fit into those jeans six months ago. What’s her problem?

As usual, the mom wins.

Queen Anne is so steep, you can get there by stairs. We climbed…

Do you see those stairs?