Category: A Dog’s Life

My mom came across an entry in Martha Stewart’s blog, featuring a series of photos of an unusual house plant and some not unusual cats.

“One of Martha’s cats looks a lot like Ophelia,” my mom exclaimed.

My mom likes Martha Stewart. She says Martha Stewart graduated from the same college she did, Barnard College, but Martha was a few years ahead of my mom.

Maybe Martha Stewart’s cat bears a passing resemblance to our own Ophelia. Look at the picture and then you can go to Martha Stewart’s post and decide for yourself.

But who cares? When it comes to domesticity, my mom is the polar opposite of Martha Stewart. She has absolutely no gift for homemaking. Our apartment is decorated in Early Graduate Student, with a liberal addition of cat hair.

“Who cares?” my mom says. “When we have a dog crate in the living room, we’ll never have an elegant home.”

Uh-oh. That’s my crate we’re talking about. I like having my crate right there, where I get to keep an eye on everything. Elegant home? Fine for other people. I just need a quiet spot to nap.

More to the point,

My mom showed me this book: Saving Cinnamon by Christine Sullivan. She just reviewed it for Amazon (although she didn’t get it as a review copy; this time she checked it out of the library).

Cinnamon is a brownish-haired dog who looks sort of like a retriever from the cover. But inside she looks more like some kind of cattle dog. As a very young pup, Cinnamon took refuge on a military base in Afghanistan, where she became the unofficial mascot of the soldiers and sailors who were stationed there.

She sounds a lot like me. I’m the kind of dog everybody wants to pat. I make friends everywhere we go. When we ride the bus, total strangers come up and talk to me. At least half a dozen people greet me by name on the street. My mom has no idea who they are or how we met. Frankly, I don’t either, but they smell familiar.

My mom told me that Cinnamon got lost in Turkey on her way to being adopted by Mark, the author’s brother. Nobody knew where Cinnamon was for six long weeks. Christine tracked Cinnamon down through a network of animal rescue groups and arranged to have her flown home to Mark. Cinnamon had been abandoned by a nasty dog handler in a place that has no laws about dog ownership.

Can you imagine? My mom said the City of Seattle makes me wear a dog license which means she owns me. Well, she owns me as a dog, but of course I own my soul and spirit.

Cathy was quite impressed with Christine’s writing ability. Thank goodness! I’m the one who has to listen when my mom rants about bad writing, especially when she gets asked to review a book. She’s writing a book for authors who want to get their books reviewed on Amazon and she says writers like Christine need this information. Too many bad books get attention, she says, while good ones suffer.

Well, you could also say that about dogs, couldn’t you? But my mom’s in no mood to argue. She wants to make another cylinder before she goes out for the evening. And of course she had to remind me, “Gracie, you are one lucky dog. You have two dog beds, two cats to torture, your Aunt Sara, your Uncle Lance, and of course me, your owner. You didn’t have to spend 24 hours in a small crate to get home. Your spent about 2 hours in a nice car with your foster mom when you came here.”

I hate it when my mom gets logical. Time for another nap.

My mom’s friends gave her a surprise Christmas present a few days ago. This is my mom with Sharon and Sharon’s kids, Kathryn and Kevin. My mom’s the un-photogenic one on the right, in the orange jacket.

Can you tell that Sharon, Kathryn and Kevin are all theatre majors?

My mom’s all bundled up in the orange jacket on the right (as if you couldn’t tell -she’s the least photogenic person in any picture). Her ears get cold so she never looks glamorous in winter. She’s got her eye on the Big Box which contains a really terrific present.: a soft throw blanket so we can curl up on the couch and stay warm. Sharon’s husband isn’t in the picture because he’s holding my mom’s camera.

I wasn’t invited. They went to a restaurant where dogs aren’t allowed. No problem. I don’t eat Thai food anyway. Not that I’d know. Do you really think my mom would let me anywhere near Thai food? Yeah, right.

And here I am, sound asleep after my afternoon romp in the park. I’m curled up on my mom’s bed, with all three comforters around me.

My mom thinks I’m really cute when I’m sleeping. “So peaceful,” she says. She doesn’t like to wake me up, except when it’s time to Go Outside before she goes to sleep herself.

The good part of my mom’s bed is that there are no cats around and not a lot of photo ops for my mom. Nothing much is happening. There are only so many ways a dog can sleep, even an adorable CUPPIE like me.

Mh mom feels good when she sees me sleeping. She says, “Good dog, Gracie! I’m glad you got enough exercise.” She worries that I don’t get  to run around enough. “A tired dog is a good dog,” she says, over and over.

Yeah, we heard it the first time.

Anyway, there’s not much to do around here when I’m not sleeping. There are only so many ways I can torture the cats. The fat Ophelia just runs and hides. The ditzy Creampuff just tries to play with me.

My mom says she feels sleepy just looking at this picture. She needs more sleep herself, I would say.

My mom Cathy interrupted my peaceful nap this morning. “Gracie, get over here!” she yelled. “I’ve been saying this for years.”

Okay, mom. I get off my mom’s bed and trot to the living room, wondering what could possibly be going on at this hour. After I assume my designated spot on the couch, my mom began to read this article from the New York Times

It seems that somewhere in Missouri, which I gather is far from Seattle where we live, a medical team conducted an experiment with 35 seniors in assisted living. Twenty-three were assigned human walking partners. Twelve lucky residents were assigned to walk dogs at a local animal shelter.

The human pairs didn’t do so well. They talked each other into quitting and staying home. Too hot. Too cold.

The dog walkers never faltered. They’d look forward to the outing at the animal shelter. They would leap off the bus, saying, “Where’s my dog?”

And here’s the good part (according to my mom). The dog walkers demonstrated increased fitness. Some were able to lose their canes and walkers. They increased their walking speed.

The good part according to me: More people recognize the value of dogs. Maybe we’ll see an end to those no-dog zones that keep me from accompanying my mom to coffee shops and libraries. We’re cleaner and better behaved than a lot of humans.

In Seattle Metro, where we can ride buses, the drivers always say, “That dog is a better passenger than most of the humans.”

True. I don’t have a cell phone. I’ve never done drugs. I just sit quietly on Cathy’s lap and collect pats and rubs from everybody who goes by. Most people smile when they see me.

Okay, legislators and rulers of the human world. It’s time to make a bigger place for dogs in everybody’s life and get more dogs out of that shelter. I bet if assisted living facilities offered dogs to the residents, their medical bills would go down.

My mom takes pottery at a local Community Center. She likes the ambience of friendly people and a high-quality pottery class.

I like the fact that dogs are welcome here…at least I am.

Mom was quite impressed with the holiday decorations. She made this video as we were leaving.