Uh oh. Here I am enjoying a peaceful chew on one of Cathy’s wonderful wool socks. What’s the problem?
“Don’t swallow that thread!” my mom shrieks. “We’ll have a huge vet bill.”
She’s about to take this sock away fom me and give me one of those boring chew-proof dog toys. Time for a walk, Mom.
Creampuff tends to be the low cat on the totem pole. Ophelia took Tiger’s place as Top Cat and of course I take up a lot of space.
Creampuff doesn’t mind. She’s my ditziest housemate. If she were a human, she’d be Miss Congeniality in a beauty pageant.
Creampuff plays with everybody. She even sniffs at me when I walk by. She eats my food and takes over my dog bed. She’s determined to become friends with Ophelia. My mom thinks it’s gonna happen. Ophelia used to hiss at Creampuff but Ophelia’s running out of energy. She’s no kitten.
Here’s Creampuff looking absolutely adorable. That’s what Creampuff does best. She’s the most photogenic member of our household. She’s just taking a break in Cathy’s closet, getting white hair all over Cathy’s clothes.
“No point buying nice furniture or clothes,” Mom says. “Not with all these animals.”
I’ve been living with my mom for over three years and I understand what’s going on. Mom has no desire to buy nice clothes or furniture. We’re just an excuse.
Here’s Creampuff
Yesterday my mom decided we should go for a long walk. The weather was beautiful, she said, and she wanted more exercise. Have you ever noticed that when Mom wants exercise, I have to walk too?
We took a bus to the top of Queen Anne hill (thank goodness – it’s very steep). We walked to the pet store. So many wonderful dog treats! I couldn’t wait to see what Mom would buy me.
Bad news.
“Gracie, you have enough treats,” my mom said. “This time we are getting something for Ophelia. She’s been playing with pieces of paper and I want her to have something she can’t swallow.”
Have you noticed that Ophelia’s taking over? My mom feels a special bond with that cat because she nursed Ophelia to health last fall. You’d think Ophelia would hate the person who shoved food down her throad twice a day. But no: there’s a mutual adoration society in our home.
The people at the pet store were very helpful. “Here’ s a catnip toy,” they suggested. “She couldn’t swallow this one.”
“But Gracie could,” my mom said, giving me the eye. “And Gracie will play with everything. She loves catnip.” Right, mom. Tell the world.
We walked away with a catnip log that’s not even interesting. What a wasted trip. And when I say “walked,” I mean that literally. We walked all the way down the hill to our home.
“Every time we pass a bus stop,” Cathy says, “Gracie wants to stop and wait for a bus!” Well, why not? My mom let a perfectly good Number 2 Bus – our favorite – get away.
“Walking is good for us,” she said firmly.
Ophelia loves her new cat toy. She has no dignity for a cat of her age and size. I’m too tired to care. And I need to save my energy for my trip to the park with Aunt Sara. We CUPPIEs need our beauty sleep.
My mom Cathy has a serious addiction. She devours murder mysteries, although she says, “I’m getting fussier and it’s harder to find good ones these days.” Her current fave authors are Marcia Muller, Lisa Scottoline, Margaret Maron and (especially) Sharyn McCrumb. But she reads others too and she just picked up Dog On It by Spencer Quinn.
“The best dog mysteries feature Susan Conant’s Holly Winter,” she told me. “But I keep trying, This one isn’t bad.” 
She read some paragraphs aloud to me while I pretended to sleep. This book is about an amazing dog named Chet who was trained as a police dog. Chet is owned by Bernie, who was (apparently) trained as a police offficer. Bernie is the standard down and out detective, driving a beat-up car and scrambling to make a buck from divorce cases. Of course Chet goes along for the ride (literally) and writes the books.
Chet’s not a bad writer, as dogs go. I like to think I’m the best dog writer in the world, but my mom tells me to be realistic. “And this dog is a real hero,” she says. “He’s always there to protect his owner from the bad guys. He sniffs out drugs. He finds his way home when he’s kidnapped.”
Well, not exactly. There’s a bit of coincidence here and there.
“Gracie, that dog keeps saving his owner. He’s so loyal he skips eating sometimes.” We both know I will never, ever turn down food.
“There’s one scene where the dog’s chewing helps rescue the owner. There’s hope for you yet,” Mom says.
I don’t deign to look up from my nap. Since when do I have to measure up to some fictional dog who is (at least fictionally) trained as a police dog?
Luckily for me, Mom thought the book was good but not great. “The plot gets a little far-fetched,” she said. “All those Russians.”
Good. I get to be appreciated for the CUPPIE that I am. And now it’s time for our pre-bedtime walk.
Yesterday we stepped outside into a world covered with snow. Beautiful but very cold. My mom grumbled because she had to wear her parka again and she’s ready for shorts and t-shirts.
Lighten up, Mom! And how about getting out the dog brush? I’m shedding all over the place. Spring doesn’t have the same meaning to a dog.
This morning Mom noticed I was coughing and trying not to choke. At first she was worried.
But when I coughed up some cloth, she caught on. “Gracie, you are chewing up the toy you got as a birthday gift – the nice yellow bear you got from Summer. There’s a big hole in the bear’s paw. You’ve got cotton filling all over the floor.”
Me? I tried to look innocent. Mom took the toy away and gave me one of those toys that promise to be chew-proof. Boh-ring!
“From now on,” Mom said, “you stay where I can see you. You choose: sofa or dog bed.”
So I’m curled up tight on a corner of the sofa, instead of sprawled out on Mom’s nice big bed. The dog bed is nice too, but it’s on the floor. We CUPPIEs don’t like to sit on floors. (A CUPPIE is a Canine Urban Princess. Haven’t you been reading this blog?)
“And if you ever leave the bed to eat cat food,” Mom said, “you’re in the crate for the night.”
Yeah, yeah. Good thing you’re not a human mom. Your kids would be in therapy for life.
Don’t tell Mom, but the crate’s not so bad. I get a peanut butter kong to keep me company. Who needs anything else?
Yesterday my mom wanted to take some time for R&R after her gym class. So I spent almost the entire day at the Downtown Dog Lounge with my adopted big sister, Summer, and the other folks who adore me.
“She played in the pen,” they reported when Mom came to pick me up.
“Where does she get the energy?” Mom wondered. I’m not telling.
Then everybody fussed over me on the bus trip home.
“Beautiful dog.”
“So mellow.”
“My dog would never sit like that.”
Of course, my mom has to spoil everything. She likes to tell the world, “Gracie is a rescue mutt. She thinks she’s a princess. Princesses don’t ride on the floor, so she sits on my lap.”
Well, would you want to ride on the floor? Who knows what else has been there? And how would you like being called a mutt?
Actually, my mom Cathy doesn’t mind at all. She hates the idea of classifying people by nationality or ethnic group. “I’m a mutt myself,” she says. “I don’t know anything about my ancestors either.”
My mom is like me in other ways, too. She resists training and she likes treats. But nobody’s ever, ever complimented her on being well-behaved.
I’m working on it…after my nap.
I’m getting on in years. My mom keeps looking at me and saying, “Gracie, you’re almost six and half. You’ll be seven in October.”
Yeah, yeah. I can count. Well, actually not, because I’m a dog, but I know I’m not getting younger. I sleep more. I tolerate the cats.
My mom gets anxious because she thought her First Dog, the sainted Keesha, would live forever. Cathy and Keesha were very close. Keesha had to teach Cathy how to be a dog owner. Thankfully, she’s a quick learner, so my job is easier.
Then my mom read a news article to me. “A ten-year-old dog won the Westminster Dog Show,” she said. “For a dog, ten is the new six.”
True. At six and a half, I’m like a three-year-old. I chew socks. I play hard at the dog park. And I still like to give the cats a little grief. Especially that fuzzy Ophelia, our new housemate. She’s nine and still going strong. And Creampuff still plays like a kitten.
My mom was thrilled to realize I might be around for awhile. And she was even happier with Gail Collins’s column, which declared, “Old is in.” Collins pointed to Stump, the 10-year-old dog who won Westminster, as well as new heroes like the US Airways pilot.
I’m still young enough to chew on Cathy’s socks. Who cares about anything else?
Last week, as usual, I went to the Downtown Dog Lounge while Mom worked out in the gym. They recognize a CUPPIE – a Canine Urban Princess – when they see one.
Patrick is paying homage to me here with a treat and I’m condescending to accept it. This is life as it shold be.
Just about every Sunday my mom takes me to the Downtown Dog Lounge. She works out in her gym while I get a good workout with all the other dogs. It’s nice being around my own species. Cats just don’t play well with others.
I like the name, Dog Lounge better than “doggie day care.” Much more fitting for a Canine Urban Princess – a CUPPIE – like me. And let’s face it. Half the time I’m lounging around on the couch when my mom comes to pick me up.
“Did Gracie play? Was she good?” My mom asks these questions every time.
“She’s always good,” they say.
Now, those folks know how to treat a dog. Here’s my adopted Big Sister Summer. We adore each other.
“Gracie, you’ve come a long way for an adopted rescue mutt,” my mom said when she took this picture.
Hah. I’m just achieving my destiny.