So I’m a mutt…who cares?

Yesterday my mom wanted to take some time for R&R after her gym class. So I spent almost the entire day at the Downtown Dog Lounge with my adopted big sister, Summer, and the other folks who adore me.

“She played in the pen,” they reported when Mom came to pick me up.

“Where does she get the energy?” Mom wondered. I’m not telling.

Then everybody fussed over me on the bus trip home.

“Beautiful dog.”

“So mellow.”

“My dog would never sit like that.”

Of course, my mom has to spoil everything. She likes to tell the world, “Gracie is a rescue mutt. She thinks she’s a princess. Princesses don’t ride on the floor, so she sits on my lap.”

Well, would you want to ride on the floor? Who knows what else has been there? And how would you like being called a mutt?

Actually, my mom Cathy doesn’t mind at all. She hates the idea of classifying people by nationality or ethnic group. “I’m a mutt myself,” she says. “I don’t know anything about my ancestors either.”

My mom is like me in other ways, too.  She resists training and she likes treats. But nobody’s ever, ever complimented her on being well-behaved.

I’m working on it…after my nap.

3 thoughts on “So I’m a mutt…who cares?”

  1. Jasper loves to ride on the floor, under the seats. Once he found a cheeseburger, and he is always hoping for lightning to strike twice.

  2. Lou, you may be a mutt, but I’m a Canine Urban Princess. My mom needs to come up with a better way to describe me. And Jasper, you are too big to sit on Lindsay’s lap. But how did you ever get a cheeseburger? When I sniff around the floor I just find stale chewing gum.

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