Category: A Dog’s Life

Am I a fraidy-dog? And who cares?

Maybe you’re heard the expression “fraidy-cat.” Our cats aren’t afraid of anything, except maybe the vacuum cleaner.

My mom has been worried that I’m turning into a fraidy-dog. Here’s what happened. One day we went to Regrade Park, the off-leash park that’s just two blocks away from our new home. A big dog jumped on me. I demanded to leave. We did.

Then a few days later, the same dog was back … and the same thing happened. Now I hate going to the park.

Frankly, I haven’t been crazy about that park for awhile. I’m not as young as I used to be: I’ll be eight in just two months. That’s getting into senior dog status, my mom says. So I no longer want to jump around with a bunch of high-energy younger dogs. I like sitting on the wall and letting Lindsay, Sue, Andy, William or some of the other humans make a big fuss over me. On very rare occasions, my mom allows me to accept a treat. That’s even better.

But now I tug on the leash when we walk to the park. As soon as we get there, I head right to the exit with a purposeful expression.

“Oh no, Gracie! We just got here!” my mom says. “We have to de-sensitize you.”

For help she turned to Andy, who’s a professional dog trainer. He had a great idea. Treats. LOTS of treats. “Special treats just for the park!” he said.

“Liver bits?” my mom suggested.

Yaay. I love liver bits.

My mom is no dummy, although you might wonder at times. I get peanut butter only in the crate so I love my crate. If I get liver bits only in the park, she hopes I’ll learn to love the park. I’m not so sure.

After all, my mom isn’t a great example of bravery. She’s not crazy about water, heights, shaky bridges and a bunch of other things that she won’t let me share here. When she bought a house in Florida, she got Keesha because she didn’t want to be alone in the house with just two cats. Did I mention that she also had a perfectly functioning alarm system?

“If I get another house, I’ll need a second dog,” she tells me. “You’re not ferocious enough.”

My mom’s getting older, too. Unlike me, she refuses to admit it. Yesterday she dove right into a zumba class where she was probably the oldest person by twenty years. That’s the equivalent of me joining a pack of three-year-old feisty dogs and trying to keep up.

“Don’t tell George the Fitmonkey,” she told me as she limped out the door to take me on a walk. Her hips were sore from all those “swing your booty” moves.

“When I have to give up these gym classes, I’m giving you to Bill in New York and joining the great aerobics class in the sky.”

I could say a lot but I value my treats, not to mention my regular high-priced food and walks with Aunt Sara. So I’ll leave it to my followers to fill in the blanks.

Even the police recognize a good dog

Last Thursday we were on our way to the Farmers Market. We were running late (so what else is new) and the weather was quite warm and sunny. I was in an excellent mood. So when we passed two male humans on bicycles, I was overjoyed. They smelled like dog-loving people. Surely they wanted to play? I jumped up to see.

“Oh no, Gracie!” my mom yelled. “Sit! SIT! Did I say, ‘SIT?'”

What’s the problem?

“They’re cops on bikes,” my mom explained. “We have to be on good behavior.”

So…what was I doing wrong? One of the men leaned down and patted me. He gave me a nice butt rub, just where I like to be massaged. I leaned into him and I could feel the vibes. This was a man who needed a dog fix.

“See? Much better,” the man said.

My mom was too stunned to take a picture, a fact she regretted later. We continued on to the bus stop.

“Luckily you are wearing your tags,” my mom said. “Seattle is very strict about ID.”

Why wouldn’t I be wearing my tags? They’re attached to my collar and we never leave home without them.

As we waited for the bus, my mom realized what she was wearing. She was even more dressed down than usual because she knew she’d go right home to shower and change for the basketball game. So she was wearing her old shorts with holes – yes, real holes – and her ancient t-shirt that looks like somebody washed a dog with it. She also had her sneakers with holes and her roller suitcase that’s coming apart. She had her keys and bus pass on a lanyard around her neck; some people think it’s cool but I sense that many think otherwise.

“Maybe they thought we were poor and homeless,” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

No way, mom. You may look like a scruff but I’ve got a shiny coat and a regal air that doesn’t fool anybody. I may be naked but I do have a nice leash, collar and all the tags a canine princess needs to survive in the city of Seattle.

Dogs get traumatized too

My mom just read me an article from the local paper, the Seattle Times. Apparently a nice German Shepherd had been employed as a bomb-sniffing dog. She had been a playful, happy pup before she was deployed. All the loud noises and stressful conditions were too much for her. She became withdrawn and afraid of people. You can read the article here/

Fortunately the military people worked hard to rehabilitate this dog. They gave her treats (always a good idea!) when she walked outside. They encouraged her to walk through doorways by offering treats. Most important, they gave her LOTS of love.

However, as a dog who’s been through two rescue groups, I don’t see why anyone is surprised. Every dog who goes through a shelter or rescue group has probably been traumatized. Kind, loving, knowledgeable owners rarely have dogs that end up in rescue. If they can’t keep their dogs, they make responsible arrangements. Anyway, just being in a cage, or being uprooted from a loving environment, will be traumatic. We need lots of extra love and (are you listening, mom?) more treats.

My mom never forgets that I’m a rescue dog. She reminds me every day, “Gracie, you have issues.” She tells everyone we meet, “Gracie is a rescue mutt.” Can’t she just say, “Gracie is a shepherd-lab mix?” I don’t know if I am or not, but who cares?

I’ve come a long way, though. Everybody says so! “Gracie is so much more confident,” they say. “She looks so happy!”

True. I’m a lucky dog. But I can’t help wondering. If I’d waited just a little longer, maybe Bill Gates would have adopted me.

Read the article here: http://tinyurl.com/32jt29a

Parades, parks and more: this dog is worn out

Whew…we’ve had a busy weekend. On Friday evening my mom went off to a basketball game with some of her pals. She came home later, contented because her team won.

On Saturday I usually recover from my Friday excursion to Magnuson Park with my Aunt Sara. But Mom was on a roll. She took me with her while she ran a few errands in Upper Queen Anne. I got to smell some grass and accept a treat from the Queen Anne Bookstore. On the rare occasions my mom buys a book, she goes there, because they’re so nice to me.

Okay, I was ready to turn in. But no: the mom decided we needed to see the famous Seattle Torchlight Parade. As a dog, I don’t get parades. I rarely see anything because I’m too close to the ground. There’s all kinds of noise from loud music, screaming, drums, roars…gimme a break.

I got lots of attention from the crowd though. Several people said, “What a beautiful dog.” A few people offered snacks but my mom held firm. One woman jumped: “I just felt a cold nose on my hand.” Yep. That was me.

Even my mom got tired as we watched one car after another go by with beautiful women in prom dresses. That’s what my mom called them. Finally we heard a “boom” from the cannon down the street. “That’s our signal to leave,” my mom said. “Last time we watched the parade together, you got spooked. Remember? It was so long ago that dogs were still allowed in Uptown Espresso. You jumped in my lap and started shaking.”

Me remember? I’m a dog. But I was happy to escape and return home to catch up on my sleep.

Good grief … all this fuss about a cat

Even my mom was surprised. She picked up the Week In Review Section of the New York Times to catch up on current events. Right on the front page of this section was a big story about a stray cat the author found in India. It’s the old story about a scraggly cat that recovered, with the help of a lot of love and good food.

Ophelia was a little scraggly when she came to live with us. She wasn’t exactly starving like that cat. She weighed fifteen pounds. She had an eye infection and she hated Creampuff. Now she’s got a healthy coat, she tolerates Creampuff and she still weighs fifteen pounds.

“The cat in the story liked to roam around,” my mom said. “That would never work here.”

We all feel sad about Creampuff sometimes. This ditzy calico loves the outdoors. With the right owner, she’d be an indoor/outdoor cat, my mom says. Alas, she’s destined to spend her life inside, as a city apartment cat. She seems happy. She purrs a lot.

And after all, what choices did she have? She wouldn’t have survived another month at that shelter. Let’s not go there.

But we’re still puzzled. How does a cat story merit all that space in a distinguished newspaper?

Sunny day with a cat

city dog and apartment cat enjoying sunFor once, Creampuff has the right idea. She’s snoozing in the sun. I’m sitting next to her so I can keep an eye on our ditziest housemate. We’re in Cathy’s office, trying to distract her from her work.

“Website makeover!” she mutters from time to time. “Hassle. Frustration.”

That’s where Creampuff and I get busy earning our food and treats. We lighten the mood. We give the mom perspective.

“Gracie, why are you lying in the sun?” my mom asks. “Dogs don’t tolerate heat well.”

True. Eventually I’ll move to my own bed and Creampuff will go off in search of new adventures. And in just a few minutes, I will nudge my mom with my cold nose, reminding her I need a walk. Her work can wait. I can’t.

Good grief…a muzzle.

Well, my mom finally did it. She made good on her promise to get me a muzzle if I didn’t stop eating unmentionable stuff in the dog park.

So here I’m back at the Belltown Dog Park, on top of my favorite wall, newly muzzled and totally pissed.

“She’s not miserable,” my mom said. “Her tail is up. She looks like a scuba diver.”

“She’s adjusting better than most dogs,” everyone agrees.

Busted. I am trying hard to look like a miserable, deprived, helpless dog. Not working.

Sometimes I try to pull the muzzle off. Sometimes I forget I have it on. I have to find a new way to play since up to now, it’s all about chewing and grabbing things with my mouth.

“Maybe in six months she’ll be fine on her own,” my mom said to my Aunt Sara, in an uncharacteristically optimistic prediction.

“We can always try.” Aunt Sara was neutral. She gives me treats even while I’m wearing my muzzle. And my mom gives me a treat before she puts the muzzle on, every single time. She admits to feeling a little ambivalent…but she’s not a bit undecided about those vet bills for my sensitive tummy.

Does this dog need a muzzle?

Oh no. I’m finally busted.

The truth is, I am a nibbler and a grazer. As we walk along the street, I constantly look for food. We’re making some progress, my mom says. But every time I’m let loose for a good sniff, she worries that I’ve found a chicken bone (or worse).

Then there’s the dog park. I eat things that I am not allowed to mention in this blog. Things that, my mom says, are totally not in keeping with my royal image.

“Utterly gross,” the mom says.

“Delicious,” I say.

And once I start to eat, i won’t let go. Even if they yell, squirt or chase. I chew as I run.

After my last bout with tummy troubles, my wonderful Aunt Sara said, “How about getting Gracie a muzzle? A basket muzzle so she can drink and bark but not eat?”

My mom asked our vet. “Great idea!” our vet said.

I’m not thrilled.

“You won’t get sick as often,” my mom said. “You won’t have to skip meals and eat bland food for days on end.”

Hmm, We’ll have to see about that. The mom found a pet store that stocks muzzles. It’s about 20 minutes away and she hates to go anywhere so I may have a reprieve.

What are other dogs doing about this problem?