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.