A Dog’s Life – Page 29

Mom gets busy…

My mom has been busy all weekend, but she makes time for me to exercise. Yesterday we walked over a mile to a furniture store so she could buy a new bookcase. (She just gave away her old one on Craigslist. Too small, she said.)

“You need exercise,” she said. “I’m going out tonight.” And she did. She was off to the Symphony, humming the tune to the Idee Fixe of Berlioz’s Fantastique. (My mom is so proud of her new musical knowledge. She’s got a lot to learn, she says.)

Then today I played for two hours in the Dog Lounge with my best pal and adopted Big Sister, Summer. Summer wants to take Mom to the Ewetopia sheep-herding event next week.

Me? Herd sheep? My hair stands on end. I bet somewhere in my genes is a true sheep dog.

We’ll see. Mom says she’ll take off the time if we can work out the driving with Summer. I’m keeping my paws crossed. And very nice paws, too. Summer gave me a manicure. My mom says she’s long overdue for one herself.

“Just be glad I have so much work,” she said. “Somebody has to pay for your crunchies. And dog walks. And…” uh-oh, I know what’s coming… “your vet bills from eating JUNK.”

Time for a nap. And boy do I need one.

Cat meets computer

Look who’s taken up residence near Mom’s desktop computer. Mom’s favorite Computer Guru, the MacDaddy of Seattle, says cat hair won’t bother the desktop. Thank goodness!

Creampuff likes to sleep there. So we figure Ophelia just had to take over and establish dominance. Besides, it’s nice and warm.

We can’t figure out how she got up there. Ophelia’s not a jumper. She prefers hiding out in her cave.

Wow…look who’s settled in!

This morning the weather was awful. My mom dropped me off in the Dog Lounge with instructions to, “Make sure she gets LOTS of exercise.” I did and I’m wiped.

So who’s daring to enter my turf on Cathy’s bed? This is where I get to take naps. Since when do cats share my space?

Ophelia doesn’t get it. She’s the Queen Mother and I’m just the Princess.

Cathy caught me in this awkward pose. She tried to get a more dignified picture but she was so happy to see Ophelia looking directly into the camera.

Notice how my mom’s priorities have shifted. My blog gets the photo where Ophelia looks best.

Ophelia was saying, “I’m being polite and dignified. I don’t know what’s going on over there.”

Nothing’s going on. I’m just scratching an ear, for heaven’s sake.

Finally — somebody gets it right about dogs.

Cathy skimmed through Made For Each Other: The Biology of the Human–Animal Bond, by Meg Daley Olmert. She didn’t get into all the details about oxytocin.

But here’s what she read to me (p. 212):
“In 1995 Friedmann (a researcher at U of Maryland) …found that dog ownership was the big survival factor in the first year following a heart attack. Of the eighty-seven subjects who owned dogs, only three died; nineteen of the non-dog owning patients did. When weighed aginst the other top survival factors (strengths of heart, absence of diabetes, and regularity of heartbeat), owning a dog gave a heart attack victim a significantly greater chance of being alive one year later.”

Yaay! See, I’m not just a cute accessory.

Of course, my mom pointed out, people who own dogs tend to live in places where they have more control over their lives. Maybe that’s the reason.

But no. Another study randomly gave dogs to stressed-out stockbrokers. Those who got dogs were healthier and reported fewer stress symptoms than the non-dog group, my mom said.

Well, I’m certainly not stressed. Come on, mom: stop reading about all this stuff and let’s get some sleep.

Another adopted dog becomes an author

Someone sent my mom a book to review: Bark Up The Right Tree. She read parts of the book to me while I pretended to take a nap. Frankly, there’s just too much competition these days. Everybody and his dog wants a piece of the action.

This dog, Jessie, had a hard life. A child abused her (she doesn’t say how) and then she ended up in a shelter. Wow! Compared to Jessie, my life was easy. Nobody abused me. I ended up in a foster home right away. The foster mom wanted to adopt me but her family said, “We have enough dogs now.” So I hung out with them a few weeks.

My foster mom was a real salesperson. “She looks so cute playing with the puppies.” And, “She’s sitting on the rug, chewing her chew toys.”

“Does she chew anything else?” Cathy asked suspiciously. She was spoiled. Keesha, her First Dog, was a barker, not a chewer.

“Oh no, just toys.” They lied. Or maybe I was on good behavior for a few weeks.

Anyway, Cathy asked a lot of questions about how I got along with the resident cats. When she found out I didn’t eat them, she was happy. (Why would I eat cats? Yuk.)

Back to the book. Ruth decided she wanted a dog named Jessie. By then the dog Jessie had been moved to a foster home, thanks to a private rescue group. Jessie had an upper respiratory infection but she was mellowing. The rescue group listed Jessie on Petfinder as a Lab mix aged seven. (Hey, that’s where Cathy found me! Maybe dogs need to take Internet Marketing courses.)

Ruth originally gave Jessie her own room. Gimme a break. What dog wants to sleep alone? I had to sleep in a crate after I arrived here, but Cathy was right in the next room. And that Jessie is smart like me. We both taught our owners where we want to sleep.

Jessie’s owners were loving and sensitive. Cathy as an owner is much tougher. “My way or the highway,” she likes to say.

But Cathy’s a sucker for stories about dogs who were rescued. When she tells my story, she likes to dress it up. She tells my story to everyone on the bus, in the dog park and on the street. She wants to teach people how wonderful a rescue dog can be.

“When I had Keesha,” she says, “people thought she was a purebred. They’d ask what I paid for her. But everybody knows Gracie’s a mutt.”

What an attitude. I’m keeping my eyes closed. We CUPPIES have to maintain our dignity. I bet Ruth doesn’t talk about Jessie like that.

P.S. My mom said to read her review before you buy the book or give it away. Just click on the book cover.

A beautiful day for a walk (or a nap)

Today the weather was fantastic – especially for Seattle. Sun and perfect blue sky,

Right after her teleseminar, my mom announced, “We are going for a walk!” At first I was thrilled. When Mom holds a teleclass, I have to hang out in my crate. I was ready to move.

But then Mom said, “Let’s walk to the top of Queen Anne Hill! I’ll drop some books off in the library and then we will turn around and come home.”

Oh no. What’s wrong with a nice bus? These hills are so steep they’ve got stairways.

“We’ll accomplish three things,” my mom said. “I’ll get exercise. You’ll get a walk. And I will drop off some library books in the Queen Anne branch, so I’ll have less to carry later.”

True. I’m not allowed in the Queen Anne library so Mom’s not tempted to check out even more books.

“And the stairs are so good for us! Good for our glutes.”

Earth to mom. Dogs don’t have gluteus maximi. We have legs and … I don’t know. Dogs don’t learn anatomy.

That afternoon I took a nice long nap in the sun. My mom said, “I wish I could join you. I’d love to curl up on the rug, in a patch of sunlight, and just sleep.”

Good thing she didn’t. Somebody has to work around here to keep everybody’s bowl filled with crunchies.

Spring is coming (and not a moment too soon)

My mom and I are both ready for winter to be over. Mom was sure she had put away her big parka for the last time, but no: yesterday was really cold. We walked to the UPS store to pick up some packages. On the way back, we found ourselves in a snowstorm. My muzzle was covered with fat, white flakes.

But my mom keeps pointing to signs of spring. On our morning walk, she said, “Gracie, look — crocuses! First sign of spring!”

She tried to get me to go over and sniff them. “It would be a great photo op,” she said.

But why would I want to sniff flowers? That’s what cats do. I could care less. So here I am sniffing an old potato chip wrapper. Maybe I’ll find a five-year-old chicken bone. Much more interesting. Who’s going to eat a crocus?

So I woke her up at 5…big deal!

Yesterday I woke my mom at 5:30 AM (not 5, as she claims). I demanded to Go Outside, immediately. Since we live on the third floor of a city building, Mom had to put on her coat and shoes. She had to snap on my leash and grab her keys. We had to ride the elevator.

Fortunately, my mom sleeps in her sweats in winter and old gym shorts in summer. She says she needs to be ready to answer the door or go out for a fire alarm at a moment’s notice. Personally, I think she just doesn’t want to shop for proper night attire.

It’s all the same to me. I’m naked 24/7.

“Gracie, it’s Sunday morning,” she moaned. “The papers haven’t even arrived yet. Can’t you let me sleep another hour?”

C’mon, mom. it’s good for you. You need to get to the gym. I need to go to the Dog Lounge.

Oh no. Mom dialed a familiar number. “Hi, Summer. It’s Gracie’s mom here.” (She really says that when she calls the dog lounge or the vet. A Freudian analyst would have a field day.) “Gracie’s been a little…um..her tummy seems…I can still bring her in? Terrific.”

Whew. Thank goodness Summer has some common sense. I wouldn’t want to miss my favorite day at the Dog Lounge.

And I wasn’t sick at all. Just to be safe, mom gave me rice and a small serving of dog food last night. I was hungry! Since I’m not doing anything suspicious, she gave me bigger helpings this morning. We’re almost back to normal.

Dogs driving cars? No way!

My mom just came across this cool post on another blog, this one written by a human. Put your paw here to read the full story.

My mom would never let me ride with anybody in the front seat. When she had the First Dog, the sainted Keesha, she had a Toyota Corolla. Keesha was trained to ride in the back seat — always.

Now she lives in Seattle and we mostly ride buses. But sometimes we get rides with Cathy’s friends and acquaintances. When I go along, I sit in the back seat and look out the window. That’s the appropriate place for a CUPPIE – a Canine Urban Princess. I deserve to be chauffeured around.

When I first moved in with Cathy, I didn’t know much about cars. I sit on Cathy’s lap on buses, so I figured I’d do the same. We practiced with my Uncle Lance’s car, a Toyota Camry. Cathy held on to my leash so I wouldn’t leap through the window. As if! Why would I leave a soft comfy car to run in the traffic? But it makes her feel better.

Now I’m a pro. I sit up straight or sleep on the back seat. Uncle Lance is especially grateful that I never, ever mess up the car. If I need to toss my cookies or do my business, I wait till we have arrived at our destination.

Why wouldn’t I? I want to be invited back.

No wonder I eat cat food…

In our household, we are not limited to species-specific behavior. Real dogs chew catnip.

And look who’s taken over my bed: our ditzy housemate, Creampuff. This bed is way too big for her but she’ll stay here forever, just to make me sleep somewhere else. Creampuff eats my food, too.

Unlike humans, we’re not having identity crises. “You’re comfortable with yourself,” my mom says approvingly.

She should know. She’s pretty comfortable herself, doing pretty much whatever she pleases most of the time.