Category: dog owner

City Dog and Dog Owner Enjoy a Seattle Moment

Mom says people want some pictures of her, not just me. But usually it’s just the two of us, and I don’t have fingers, let alone opposable thumbs. Besides, I’m a lot more photogenic than my mom.

On Wednesday my mom announced that we were going to walk up to Queen Anne. Going up is a LOT harder than going down. On the way back, my mom was so thrilled with the view she insisted we walk over and take a look. Personally, I could care less about views. I’d rather dig for something more interesting, which my mom won’t allow me to mention in this blog.

We saw some tourists taking pictures. My mom said, “If I take a picture of your family all together, can you get a picture of us?”

They said, “Sure.” Mom struck a pose and I’m looking at her, like, “What is going on here?”

It turned out they were a couple visiting their son, who is studying at University of Washington. My mom likes to give people information about Seattle because it makes her feel like an old-timer. Well, we have our fourth anniversary coming up. You’re not a newcomer, Mom. But it’s kind of cute when you play tourist.

My mom wants me to add that she hadn’t planned to have her picture taken, so she was wearing her old shorts and sweatshirt. Luckily she got her hair cut so she looks a little ore together than usual.

Please write a comment to reassure my mom that she doesn’t look as awful as she thinks. Tell her she doesn’t look old, even if you have to lie.

Aww……City Dog and City Dog Owner Enjoy the Dog Park

My mom just got her hair cut. She was so tired of fussing with the sides and dealing with frizz. So she marched into her hair stylist and said, “Cut it off! Cut it all off!”

I wasn’t there, of course. It’s illegal for dogs to hang out in hair salons. But that’s just fine. Why would I want to be there? They have cold shiny floors. There’s nothing to do. It smells funny.

My mom’s first dog, Keesha, was a guard dog. Actually she was a mix of two guard breeds – keeshond and chow – so she could be ferocious. She would rather be with Cathy on a cold cement floor than sit on a soft cushion in the next room.

Not me. Give me soft anytime.

But I like sitting on top of this ledge. Lindsay sits here, when she’s in the park, and occasionally she can be persuaded to give me a treat. She’s always good for a tummy rub or a good butt scratch.

Lindsay’s taking this picture. See how my mom’s smile looks more like a grimace? That’s because she’s within a mile of a camera, even if she reailzes she asked for it. She’s the least photogenic person on the planet.

I look like I’m bonding with my mom, don’t I? Don’t fool yourself. My nose is continuously on alert for treats and edible garbage. My mom and I disagree on the definitions of “edible” and “garbage,” but that’s another story.

Dog Mom Feels VERY Old Today…

This morning my mom took me out for our usual morning walk around 7 AM. Labor Day? Who cares. I need my walk.

On our way out she stopped to talk with a new neighbor and her boyfriend. They were enjoying a smoke break. (Our building is dog-friendly, no-smoking. Just the way I like it.) My mom was telling them she works at home.

“But wouldn’t you rather just retire and do nothing?”

Good grief. My mom was shaken up. “I need to start wearing more makeup,” she said, as we headed around the corner. “It’s SO depressing to have a young body and more or less young mind and get treated like an old lady…”

My mom thinks she has an old mind because she doesn’t know any of the new music. She hates it. She has spent a lifetime listening to classical country and classical concert music. Period. She tries to like jazz. She just discovered Queen song “We Will Rock You” at the WNBA game. People kept a straight face when she asked, “Where did that come from? Oh, the 70s? I was still on George Jones back then…”

True, my mom wore her yucky old sweats because it seemed chilly. I sense a new wardrobe and hairstyle may be coming. My mom needs to remember that to a young person, everybody looks old. She claims you can get senior passes at movies starting in your 40s because the teenagers at the box office can’t tell 40 from 60.

Meanwhile, my mom plans to spend the whole day in hiding. Me too…unless we get a dog park break. Nobody at the dog park is into fashion. I don’t even wear my new bandanna.

How much water does a dog need?

My mom just got a sales pitch for one of those water fountains for dogs. She said she’d consider it but she tries to avoid purchasing anything that has moving parts. She just a new DVD player (following the long-awaited demise of the old one) from Amazon. Her neighbor came over to help her hook it up.

Yep, my mom is the most mechanically challenged person I’ve ever met. Fortunately for me, my needs involve food dishes, dog beds, leashes and dog crates. She’s safe.

But that got her wondering. How much water does a dog need?

One site said 1 cup for every 5 pounds for dogs under 20 lbs. My new queen-sized figure doesn’t qualify. The rest of the notices give amounts in milliliters and my mom is clueless.

“Just to be sure,” my mom said, “I’ll just make sure your water dish is always clean and filled with fresh water. Like I’ve always done.”

At least she admits I’m the easy member of the household. The cats don’t like to drink water from a dish. They insist on drinking from cups or glasses. Naturally, those cups are easy to knock over. Our kitchen floor gets wet. Mom walks in and starts using some words that are not fit for my innocent canine ears.

See, mom, cats are useless. I’ve been telling you that for years.

Dog proclaims, “Not guilty!”

Mom took a picture of me where she claims I’m looking guilty. Fortunately the camera cable is gone so she can’t publish it anywhere. See the previous post.

I am an innocent, misunderstood dog. My mom takes too many pictures, especially featuring me in compromising positions. She needs to get a life.

My Uncle Lance has the right idea. He won’t allow her to take his picture. He won’t even let us use his real name. I don’t always want to be seen in public with my mom either, especially since she keeps forgetting to call for a hair appointment.  Now she is wait-listed for another month.

So I am not guilty of destroying property by chewing. I am actually helping my mom by protecting her from her own devices.

Mom’s a dog-gone fitness fanatic

My mom is truly a fitness fanatic. She works out three or four times a week at the gym. When the weather’s decent, she takes me for walks.

In fact, that’s why she adopted me. When she took me for my first check-up at the vet, she wasn’t there for my health. She was there for her own benefit. “Will Gracie be able to go on long walks with me?” she asked the vet. “That’s why I want a dog.”

From the beginning, I was set up to be an accessory. I’m not loved for my self and my scintillating personality.

As if that weren’t enough. Cathy worries that I don’t get enough exercise. So every Sunday, while she works out at the gym, I’m in the Downtown Dog Lounge of Seattle. Fortunately the staff is not nearly as fanatical. They sneak me treats and let me snooze on the couch while Cathy thinks I’m running around chasing other dogs. I play with my special group of friends. I help out at the reception desk. They use me for temperament-testing when new dogs apply to join our pack.

This morning Cathy warned me, “Gracie, I’m off to the ballet this evening. I want to see my favorite female dancer, Kaori Nakamura, perform the lead in Swan Lake and this will be my last chance. So you’ll be crated up for at least for hours. Better be tired.”

No problem, Mom. I am zonked. I slept all afternoon. We’re both getting older. I don’t need to run marathons anymore. And a few more treats won’t wreck my midlife figure.

Good thing Mom didn’t have human kids. They’d be ready for boot camp by the time they reached college.

“

We go for a walk

Last week my mom said, “Gracie, we’re going for a walk! We will take a bus to the top of Queen Anne Hill and walk down.”

Then, as she got ready, she said, “Hmm. These jeans are a little snug. We’d better walk both ways.”

Great. Her jeans feel tight so we have to walk? She couldn’t even begin to fit into those jeans six months ago. What’s her problem?

As usual, the mom wins.

Queen Anne is so steep, you can get there by stairs. We climbed…

Do you see those stairs?

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.

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.

So I chewed up a toy: big deal!

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?