This is The Look. I’m staring intently at my mom. She’s trying to figure out if I am saying, “Lunch! Now!” or, “Out! Now!”
She usually tries “Out” first. I can’t say as I blame her. LOL.
My mom came home one day and found us sitting close together on her bed. She was thrilled and (of course) rushed for her camera.
“What are you talking about?” she asked us. “Comparing foster homes you were adopted from? Figuring out how to con me out of more treats?”
But now they’ve started sharing the couch.
Pumpkin wants to be friends but Creampuff isn’t so sure. We suspect Creampuff curled up and then Pumpkin saw the opportunity and jumped up.
Their body language says it all One uptight ditzy Creampuff, the calico. One relaxed, friendly Pumpkin who’s never met a stranger.
Pumpkin needed zero adjustment time, my mom says. She never hid in the closet or under the bed. She just sort of took over.
No argument there. She’s taking over the photos in my blog, even though she’s too fat and lazy to help write the posts.
Well, I’ve seen my last grain of rice for what I hope will be a LONG time. Since I kept my food down all weekend, my mom started easing me back to my regular diet. It’s not the diet I dream of, but it’s high quality dog food and my mom says, “Millions of dogs would be thrilled to eat this stuff.”
Yeah, right. What’s wrong with steak and peanut butter?
Our vet called to see how we were doing. That is SO nice. My mom’s doctor never called when she injured her arm last summer.
The vet, Laura, said, “Only Gracie’s body knows what happened.”
My mom signed, “Yeah, and Gracie’s not telling.”
Nope. Just keep bringing on the treats and we’ll get along just fine.
Please add a comment if you’re reading. I answer each one.
Yesterday my mom found evidence that I had tossed up some of my recent meals. The first sign was a messy spot on the bedroom carpet but the second time happened on tile in the hallway. My mom was SO grateful but she also freaked out.
She dashed to the phone and called our nearby vet. She soon learned the difference between vomiting and regurgitation, something she said she’d be just as happy not knowing. What I just did falls into the latter category. It comes from my esophagus and is potentially more serious.
Neither my mom nor I know much about my esophagus but my mom knows the meaning of “serious” and “x-rays.” Luckily our vet suggested giving me a bland diet (can you say “rice?”) all weekend and then we will see what happens.
My mom also made a mad dash to a pharmacy to get me some Pepcid. The store clerk, she said, got confused and tried to suggest a generic with a different ingredient. My mom knows “famotidine” from my previous tummy upsets. She is a pro.
So last night I was subjected to a small bowl of rice, with more of the same this morning. My mom was thrilled to see that I have no other symptoms. I’m alert and playful. There is nothing wrong with my appetite (although that rice thing will get old pretty fast) and I even did my business this morning. (That’s probably a LOT more than you wanted to know.)
My mom said she didn’t realize being a dog owner meant taking a minor in gastroenterology, whatever that is.
She also pointed out that she’s embarrassed to buy all those stomach medicines so she makes a point of telling everyone in the drug store that they’re for me. Like, who cares? She even wants to label the products in the medicine cabinet so people won’t think she’s got all those ailments as she gets older.
My mom is keeping her fingers crossed that I’ll be better by Monday. She said she just recovered from Ophelia’s departure, Pumpkin’s skin infection and Pumpkin’s cold. She wants healthy animals for at least six months.
As you can guess, I am a poor neglected dog. OK, so my mom is home all day almost every day. And I get to go running almost every week with my Uncle Jim, not to mention scarfing treats from the building manager and getting free massages from almost everyone in the neighborhood.
Since she moved to Philly. my mom has been SO busy she has less time for my blog and she’s out almost every night. (She recovers on the weekends.)
Here are some of the sneakers she’s been making in her ceramics classes at the Clay Studio. She’s gotten marginally better since I had to help her out at the studio in Seattle. But I think she’s found her groove.
My mom says sneakers are a symbol of freedom, especially for women. “When you feet are free, your spirit is free!” she says. “Who doesn’t associate sneakers with fun?”
Ahem. In case you haven’t noticed I get to skip the whole shoe thing with my paws.
But you’ll see photos of sneakers here. My mom has considered selling them online, which would mean more money for my treats. That’s a GOOD thing.
Notice how Pumpkin, our newest adopted cat, has nudged her way into the background, occupying center stage as usual. That’s because her food area has been turned into a sneaker display. Fortunately Pumpkin is so food-oriented she’d eat even if she just had three inches of space.
The winner of the Academy Award for Best Feline Dramatic Performance is none other than our own Pumpkin the Cat. Weighing in at a hefty fourteen pounds, Pumpkin has managed to communicate that she is a poor, starving stray who deserves more food.
My mom falls for it. “Maybe just a few crunchies,” she says.
She’s getting tougher, though. Pumpkin fills my dog bed nicely. She’s given up on crawling into the kitty-sized furniture. So sometimes she just gives Pumpkin a pat on the head and says, “It’s not dinner time yet.”
As for me, I get my food carefully measured at each of my two daily meals. My mom is terrified that I’ll get fat and put too much pressure on my slender leg joints.
“You like to run and jump, Gracie,” she says. “We’ll make sure you keep moving.”
Tough love. At least I get to wangle treats from all the soft-hearted neighbors.
My mom has become quite interested in the animal rescue movement.
First of all, we live near a PAWS adoption center. They have mostly cats and no more than one small dog.
Every time we go by, my mom says, “See how lucky you are, Gracie? You have a good home! And you complain about everything.”
Who, me? Just because there wasn’t enough peanut butter in my kong toy… that’s a legitimate complaint, I’d say.
Then my mom became Facebook friends with Karen, who is Pumpkin’s foster mom. She gets all the bulletins of desperate dogs. And she sees the Puppy Mill stories, which make us all very sad.
“Imagine, Gracie,” my mom says, “some of those dogs have spent their lives in cages. They’ve never even had a tummy rub, according to that article. You get massages all the time from total strangers who want to give you a butt rub.”
The cats are rescues too but for some reason they never get lectures.
On the other hand, my mom took to heart the story of the poor dogs who never got a tummy rub. Now I get one every day.