Arf! Gracie here.
I was having a pleasant nap when my mom woke me up, exclaiming, “This is nonsense.” When I looked up inquiringly, she explained she was reading about some celebrity’s latest escapade with a car and a DUI.
“If I were a celebrity, going to a party,” my mom told me, “I would have a chauffeured limo standing by to take me home. That way I could drink as much as I wanted.”
I cocked an ear.
“OK, Gracie,” my mom admitted. “I hate parties. Everybody teases me about how little I drink. And when I go out, it’s close enough to take a cab home. Or even the bus.”
Bus? My ears perked up. Now we’re talking. I love riding buses. I get to sit in my mom’s lap and everybody tells me I’m such a beautiful dog.
“She’s a mutt,” my mom Cathy tells the other passengers. “But she thinks she’s a princess. It’s like living with Paris Hilton.”
Me? What’s this mutt stuff? I am a princess. And I don’t demand more than any other rescue dog.
Good thing I’m going to the dog lounge today. They recognize my royal blood and treat me accordingly. They set me up on the couch and feed me treats all day long. They let me play in the back with the Big Dogs. When I scratch on the door to the front, they say, “Oh it’s Gracie. Come on in, sweetheart. You can help us run the reception desk.”
That’s the way a rescue dog should be treated.
Arf! Mom is off to her gym and then it’s my turn.