My mom just read me a story about a banker who lost her job. She couldn’t find a corporate position so she started walking dogs. You can read the story here.

Here’s what she wrote: “…I get so much gratification from walking dogs. They’re so appreciative of the simplest things you do for them. No matter how bad my day may be going, when I walk into a home and the dog is so happy to see me and gives me kisses, it puts a different spin on the day.”

I know just what she means. When my Aunt Sara comes to take me for a trip to Magnuson Park, I jump up and  down. Aunt Sara tells me to sit so she can put my leash on but I am so excited! Dog walkers are saints in my book.

More people should be dog walkers. My mom says we need cat groomers even more than dog walkers. She was hoping to find a mobile unit to groom Ophelia. Finally she gave up and just ordered a new comb. She’s become quite the do-it-yourselfer these days.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/21/jobs/21pre.html?8dpc

My mom has been getting compliments on her new svelte self. Back in August, she declared 2008-2009 the Year of the Body. I must admit, I’m surprised. She keeps to her self-imposed diet (based on a combo of the Food Ranger and a couple of books she read). She goes to exercise classes.

She won’t get on a scale, but the other day she said, “I can’t wear these shorts anymore. They’re falling off! I can’t hold them up when I’m holding your leash.” She gave me a look that said, “Somebody needs to walk better on leash.” Who, me?

She’s always complaining about sore muscles but I have no sympathy. Mom’s got me on a good behavior program. That means I go to Magnuson Park twice a week and the Dog Lounge at least once a week. I’m tired too. Mom says, “Dogs are supposed to feel a little sleepy all the time.”

Great idea in theory, but I seem to be in a one-down position when it comes to the cats.

With the beautiful weather we’re having, my mom decided we should walk to her gym in the evening. Actually, she walks to the gym. I get dropped off at Downtown Dog Lounge to sit on the couch and hang out with my friend Summer and all the other dogs.

We walk about a mile and a half. Yesterday we were running late so my mom insisted we walk fast. No time for sniffing, she said. And besides, she added proudly, walking fast is better exercise.

Well, I sure don’t need to lose weight. I am in great shape. Maybe my mom could stand to drop a few inches here and here, but why do I have to go along with the program?

Cathy is very sensitive about weight, though, so I’m not saying a word. She holds the keys to my treats.

My mom Cathy keeps busy so she likes to combine her projects and errands. Yesterday she needed to go food shopping and take me for a walk, so we went to Pike Place Market. It’s a leading tourist attraction, especially in summer. Perfect or a CUPPIE: right downtown and dogs allowed.

I like Pike Place Market. All those tourists miss their dogs and they make a fuss over me. Usually I can scarf up some forbidden food. Yesterday I had a big piece of pizza crust in my mouth when my mom stopped and, right in front of everybody, yelled, “Drop!” She pulled that tasy tidbit right out of my mouth. Sigh.

But another reason I like Pike Place market is this: I can usually persuade my mom to stop by the dog park on the way home. On weekends she’s ready for some friendly conversation and there’s always at least one familiar face for her. I get extra running time.

And yesterday I got a bonus. Cathy was so tired she was falling asleep over her laptop. She didn’t notice I’d grabbed a hunk of cheese until it was almost gone. Yum! See, I’m saving her from all those calories.

Cathy doesn’t agree. Luckily it was the low-end cheddar. “If I’d bought Double Gloucester, you’d be in the dog house,” she told me firmly.

Good while it lasted. Off to another nap. Maybe next time we’ll stop by 3 Dog Bakery because I am named after the founder’s dog. The fact that they have awesome peanut buter treats is completely irrelevant.

My mom Cathy tends to ignore most physical symptoms with, “It’ll just go away if we wait.”

She says she gets her philosophy from the time she actually visited doctors who were prejudiced against women, especially single women. Eventually she stopped going to doctors because, she says, “I don’t have to pay big bucks to hear, ‘It’s all in your mind.’ ”

Of course she drags me to the vet if I sneeze twice in a row, but that’s another story.

But Cathy finally admitted her running shoes were creating a blister. She switched shoes so the yucky red area would be exposed to air and heal, a trick she learned when I got nicked at the dog park last year.

Does anyone remember the episode on Seinfeld where Kramer goes to a dog doctor for a cough? My mom didn’t laugh. She thought it was a great idea.

Cathy dug out her only other pair of wearable shoes: her 10-year-old Birkenstocks. Not quite as comfy as her running shoes so we’re walking less.

Yesterday we bussed to the dog park and I had to run around whether I wanted to or not.

“We can’t go on a long walk,” my mom said, “or I’ll get new blisters from the Birkies. So you’d better run around now.” She herself went to an exercise class where she got to go barefoot.

Someone once told my mom, “A tired dog is a good dog.” That’s one saying she never forgot.

What happened to, “Dogs need treats every day?” I like that rule.

Yesterday evening my mom Cathy decided we should go to the Folk Festival for my evening walk. We’re just ten minutes away, by foot and paw.

“We should take advantage of Seattle,” Cathy said.

Good! I love festivals:

• Lots and lots of people (so I get tons of attention - one total stranger gave me a full-body massage)
• Lots of food on the ground so I can nibble my way through the park
• It’s easy to steal food from somebody who’s balancing a paper plate and a drink on the grass
• Lots of dogs (so I can jump up and say hello).

Mom hates festivals because

• Lots and lots of people (she gets claustrophobic in crowds)
• Lots of food on the ground (her arm hurts from pulling me away from a limitless supply of snacks).
• No place to eat (balancing a dripping plate while sitting on the itchy grass isn’t her idea of a dream meal)
• Lots of dogs (because most of them don’t want to play and they get nervous when I jump up to greet them)

“Well, let’s check out the music,” Mom said bravely, steering us to one of the stages.

Alas, she concluded, Arlo Guthrie is the only folk singer she wants to hear these days, preferably from a comfy seat in Benaroya Hall.

“Your momma wears combat boots!” an ill-mannered dog barked at us one day.

I turned up my pointy little nose. “Wrong. My owner wears running shoes. Asics, to be precise.”

And she’s totally obnoxious when it comes to exercise. Sometime in her twenties, she was visiting a friend who said, “Come to the gym with me. I’ll lend you an outfit.” It was so long ago, she says, they were wearing leotards. Black leotards. Remember? Yuk. I’m trying hard not to get a mental image.

So after that my mom was hooked. She did Jazzercise and then the Nickolaus method and then aerobics till her tendons started screaming. She’s always been a walker (she’s never really liked driving) and about 15 years ago she took up weight lifting.

Cathy is totally vain about her exercise and she embarrasses me when she brags about how fit she is. When she was young she was a total wuss, she says. She used to like wearing dresses and she couldn’t do sports. She would duck when someone threw a ball in her direction. (She probably still does.)

Cathy especially drives me nuts when she interrupts my nap to tell me about articles she finds, like this one about how exercise helps every part of your health.

I’m already in perfect shape. I run with Aunt Sara at least once a week and Cathy’s always dragging me off to the dog park. But I can see Cathy’s wheels turning. She wants to get thinner and that means we’re gonna be walking…and walking. I feel sleepy already, just thinking about it.

Every time we walk, people stop us to say, “What a cute dog!” or “Can I pat your dog?” “She looks so friendly…”

And then Cathy has to go and say something about my “issues” or “She’ll go home with you if you’re not careful. She tried to go home with the UPS driver…”

Yeah, right. Come on, Mom. Let’s walk a little faster in those running shoes.

Tonight my mom took me out for a walk later than usual. I was still tired from my trip to Magnuson with my Aunt Sara. As I stopped to …well, you know. Cathy noticed a police car stopped just across the street. Were they wondering if she was going to scoop for me? Waiting to see if I had a license?Protecting us against any danger? Or on some mission that had nothing to do with us?

No problem. We’re good citizens. My mom always carries plastic bags when we go out. And we’re legal. She’s got a license to do her business and I’ve got a license to do mine.

The police car drove away silently and we returned home, where I could resume my nap, completely innocent. Fortunately shoe-chewing is a crime only within our household.

Visitors and newcomers immediately comment that Seattle people are “nice.” They rarely get mad. They’re not pushy like people in other big citites. They’re friendly.

“Sometimes it’s just too much,” a displaced New Yorker told my mom, who was born in New York and retains a Big Apple soul. “You just want to scream at somebody.”

Just yesterday, my mom was holding me firmly by the leash (I have a tendency to get distracted by motorcycles and would love to take off into the street…cars? what’s a car?). She was on her way to the bus stop, waiting for the light to change, when a total stranger came up and asked, “Are you looking for something in particular?”

“We’re just waiting for the light to change,” Cathy said, in a very un-Seattle tone.

“Uh-oh, Gracie,” she said. “That woman probably wanted to be helpful. She thought we were lost. But I’m in a neighborhood holding a dog. Do I look like a tourist?”

Just a couple of days ago another stranger told Cathy, “Those leashes aren’t good for dogs.”

“I’ve discussed her leash with my trainer and my vet,” Cathy said. “She’s fine.”

True.

Our feline housemates are declawed. Cathy adopted them that way and they’re happy, healthy and not at all neurotic. Pushy, yes. Demanding, yes. But very polite and they purr all the time, except when I try to play with them.  Just don’t tell any well-meaning helpful Seattle citiziens.

Cathy’s going off to exercise class. Good! She’ll work off some indignation and then we’ll go do something constructive together…like visit the dog park for the umpteenth time.

Happy Easter, Passover, Vernal Equinox or just Cold, Rainy Weekend in Seattle!

Good thing I don’t feel like going outdoors today. Cathy’s bed is nice and warm and I’m not leaving it till I absolutely have to. Cathy is going to the gym, as she always does on Sunday mornings, for the killer class taught by the Intrepid Russian Gymnast.

I encourage this obsession. An owner who’s in shape will take her dog for lots of walks.

I’m already in great shape…and this comforter is so soft…I’ll just dream about exercise today.