A Dog’s Life – Page 39

Dog owner to eye doctor, dog to park

gracie the dog getting treat at vet On the right you’ll see a photo of Ruth, Office Manager of UrbanVet. She knows how a vet visit should be concluded: with me, the VIP client, getting a special treat. So I look forward to going to the vet.

My mom, Cathy, avoids the human equivalent of vets – the MDs. “Mostly arrogant jerks,” she says.

But on Monday she got busy on the Internet. I heard her telling someone on the phone, “I keep seeing this black shape…like a large bug floating in front of my left eye. Yuk. I really hate doctors…maybe I’ll wait.”

Oh no. I am too old to be trained as a Seeing Eye dog. I gave her The Look. She gave in, canceled her afternoon appointments and turned me over to Aunt Sara for a trip to the park.

When it comes to doctors, my mom is a wuss. I try to set a good example for her when I go to the vet, but no luck. Fortunately I wasn’t allowed to accompany her to the eye doctor. I would have been so embarrassed.

First, every time she meets a doctor (even socially), she clenches a fist, points to her bicep and says, ”How many women my age have muscles like this?” Usually they cave in and agree: she’s in awesome shape. She never used to tell her age but now she loves to brag (not to mention being the miserly type who grabs all the senior discounts).

And then she pitched her services…to the eye doctor. True, they really need a website and she’s pretty good. And we can use the money to buy me treats, manicures, dog lounge visits and trips to the park.

Anyway my mom got a clean bill of health. She wasn’t really surprised. But she was surprised with the service. “They were so nice,” she said. ‘Not at all arrogant. No talking down to me. I was amazed.”

But she didn’t get a treat, did she? Hah. They’ll be sending her a big bill.

“I bet it’s bigger than the bill we got for your eye infection,” she sighed when we were back home together on the couch.

Good. Nice to keep things in perspective here.

We Mind Our Own Business

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.

So the pope likes cats…big fat hairy deal.

Yesterday’s New York Times reported that Pope Benedict is a cat-lover…a “soul-mate” to cats, they say. Read the story here.

According to the Times, Popes have enjoyed a special affinity with cats over the years:

“Pope Paul II, in the 15th century, had his cats treated by his personal physician. Leo XII, in the 1820s, raised his grayish-red cat, Micetto, in the pleat of his cassock. And according to The Times of London, Paul VI, pope from 1963 to 1978, is said to have once dressed his cat in cardinal’s robes.”

A cat dressed in cardinal’s robes? Those guys need to get a life.

Sure, it’s nice to know that the tough-minded Cardinal Ratzinger took care of cats in the gardens of his Congregation and even bandaged their wounds. But…wounds? What were those cats fighting about? Could a little spay-and-neuter clinic be the answer? Please tell me it’s not against the Pope’s religion to … um…fix the situation.

Anyway, if the current Pope wants a little souvenir to take back to the Vatican, I’ll make the supreme sacrifice. He can have our two spoiled felines…either or both.

There would be only one downside, as far as I’m concerned. Our cats like to eat on the floor, especially our fat old tabby. Jumping up to the counter, out of my reach, gets harder as we age. So Cathy leaves a food plate on the floor when we go out.

If I’m lucky, she forgets to pick it up when we return. So I get to sneak a delicious snack. I always look very smug when this happens.

Other than that, who needs them? They take over my dog beds. They run away when I try to play. Or they even swat my nose. Cats do not understand the concept of living in community.

cat sitting on backpack

A one-way ticket to Italy…perfect.

Here’s my candidate for deportation, sitting on top of Cathy’s backpack. She looks so innocent… but don’t be fooled. Those little paws can do a lot of damage.

Seattle People are SO Nice

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.

Caution: Dog Owner at Work

Uh-oh. Mom’s put on her copywriting music. She favors classical and she listens to whatever’s playing at the next Seattle Symphony concert she’s attending. Today it’s a Mozart piano concerto. Very soothing. dog helps owner work

Since Mom’s working seriously, I get to entertain myself this morning. Hre I am curled up on the couch, helping my mom who’s working on her laptop. Yeah, my ears go up when I’m sleeping. Don’t ask.

Fortunately Cathy feels guilty when she’s busy and she sends me off with Sara the dogwalker from Walkabout Pet Care. Sara takes a few neighborhood dogs to Magnuson Dog Park where I get to run around for a hour or so, full speed, sniffing the wind and the water. Most dogs are regulars and we’ve become friends.

“Not fair,” my mom sighs. “Gracie, why don’t you stay home and write some copy and I’ll go play in the park?”

Nice try, Mom. Maybe in your next life you get to come back as your own dog.

Visiting the dog park on a sunny day

Saturday was so beautiful. Mom was thrilled to be wearing shorts. I liked feeling sun on my fur . entering Regrade Dog Park

So after my bath and some play time at the Dog Lounge, we just had to go to the Dog Park across the street.

Look at all those rules! The only one I care about is, “Bring food at your own risk.” One day some wonderful person (my word) or idiot (my mom’s view) brought her lunch and left a whole bagel untended for all of 10 seconds. I grabbed a half and raced around the park, competing with half a dozen other dogs. Great exercise and I was the big winner.

“If Gracie steals food in the park, I’m not paying anyone a dime,” my mom says. This time she’s right.

Here’s a photo of Ed, one of the park regulars, with Sheba, one of his two dogs.

Ed likes to fuss over me (who doesn’t?), but Sheba gets jealous and knocks me down. When that happens I go over to Cathy and say, “It’s time to go home.”

We met a new dog on Saturday: Jack, newly adopted by Melissa and Jeremy.

dog park visitor with dog

They found Jack on Craigslist. He’s shaved because his fur was matted and he came with a digestive disorder. Apparently he’s allergic to corn and wheat so he’s on a special diet and doing fine. He was already house trained and very polite but they weren’t sure how he’d deal with other dogs and people.

Of course I checked him out and I’m so mellow, few dogs can resist. They even use me for temperament tests in the Dog Lounge. Within minutes Jack was sniffing out new friends all over the park.

We were waiting at the bus stop when they hailed a cab. I had to laugh. The driver seemed to be asking about the dog but Melissa was firm. “He’ll just sit on the seat and he’s very good in cars.” No room for discussion.

My mom needs to do that when we hail our own cabs. She usually brings something for me to sit on so I won’t get fur on the seats. She doesn’t argue: if they won’t take us, she’ll get another cab. I prefer the bus, myself. Some drivers welcome me and I love being the center of attention.

Dog sleeping

After a day of getting a bath, playing in the dog lounge and then catching up with my dog park friends, I was exhausted. Cathy wants me to sleep on my cushion but I’m too tired to care. Here I am dreaming about springtime in Seattle.

Urban Dog Gets Bath, Pedicure

Yesterday Cathy dropped me off at the Dog Lounge for a bath. downtown dog lounge seattle

Thank goodness…I was beginning to feel itchy.

Don’t tell anyone but I go to the groomer more than she goes to the hairdresser. “More bang for the buck,” my mom says. “Gracie looks gorgeous after her grooming session. I look…marginally improved.”

I’m not saying a word and if I were you, I wouldn’t either.

Here I am right after my bath with Terri, the trainer who’s trying to teach me some manners. When she says “No,” I listen. If she weren’t so nice…

dog trainer with gracie

And here’s Summer, who gave me my wonderful bath, trying to figure out what to charge Cathy. I should get a discount because I’m such a good advertisement for the place.

I suspect the staff thinks Cathy should pay a surcharge. When she picks me up, she asks a dozen times, “How was Gracie? Was she a good dog? Everything okay? Did she get to exercise? Will she be good and tired when we get home?”

My mom needs to get a life. But at least she makes sure I have a good one.

In the Dog House

My mom Cathy has been really busy. She’s involved with a big JV promotion and setting up more calls for her teleseminar series. (Ever the promoter, my mom insisted we add those links. If it were up to me, we’d link only to dog parks and treats.)

So I didn’t choose the best time to wake her up at 2 AM Wednesday night, demanding to go outside. Mom freaked. She was sure I was headed for another Digestive Disaster. So I spent a very disgruntled Thursday, nibbling a boring stew of rice and bland diet food.

I had to make my point. But what could I do? She carefully hid the delicious people food – yum, hamburger! – and the tempting cat food I prefer anytime.

So I waited.

Sure enough, we went to the dog park. I managed to scarf down some stuff my mom will not allow me to mention in this blog. Cathy snapped my leash back on and said, “That’s enough!” And to my admiring fan club, she added, “Gracie’s ready to go home when she stops playing and starts eating…well, you know.” They all nodded sagely, even my fans who don’t own dogs and just come to the park to hang out.

Nothing happened. I was healthy. I slept all afternoon and all night, enjoying my favorite spot on Cathy’s bed.

Finally, Cathy realized I was fine…just a one-time thing. So today she’s bringing me back to regular food, one day at a time. Let me tell you: rice mixed with California Natural and Innova is not a bad combination plate for a hungry dog. If only she’d just toss in a few bites of her own dinner…

No Identity Crisis Here

My mom was telling someone, “Gracie gets into the cat food.”

“I thought dogs wouldn’t have anything to do with the cat stuff.”

Huh?

I eat cat food whenever I can find it. I even steal Creampuff’s catnip toys. I chew them up and eat the catnip. Doesn’t do anything for me, but hey…it’s a chewing opportunity.

I sleep in the cat bed. It’s just the right size if I curl up in a tight ball…like a cat.

And I don’t do the denning thing. I don’t want to stuff myself into a corner. I’ll take the couch or the bed, thank you very much.

No problem with species identity. I know I’m a canine. When was the last time you saw a cat walking on a leash? Or roughing it up in the dog lounge?

Real men eat quiche. Real dogs scarf catnip.

Food for thought

So my mom Cathy put me on a bland diet last week. I woke her up four times in one night, demanding to go out and “do my business,” as we say delicately in this house.

This time, Cathy followed the instructions of the vet’s assistant, Mallory. She measured my food carefully and doled out careful ratios of bland food to regular food. “Take a week or so to work back to normal,” Mallory said.

Cathy nodded solemnly. No more late night wake-ups.

I had other ideas. I know how to beat the system.

Sure enough, one day Mom forgot and left the cat food out. Whoosh! It waas gone.

“Oh no!” Mom yelled when she saw the empty dish. “You better not get sick again.”

No problem. I’m back to normal food again…and I came within two seconds of capturing a live muffin.