Big Dog, Small Apartment

The New York Times finally gets something right about dogs! My mom read me this article about big dogs and small apartments. It’s in today’s paper.

We both agree. Dogs don’t run around their homes and apartments. They rarely even run around their own yards. They need exercise – long walks and places to run. That’s why I go to Magnuson Park with my Aunt Sara twice a week.

I’m not exactly huge. We won’t discuss my weight anymore, but I’m definitely in the small to medium range. My mom and I both say, “Who cares what you weigh? It’s all about muscle.” We’re both pretty solid and proud of it. My mom refuses to get on a scale, ever. I don’t have a lot of choice. When we go to the vet, they drag me to the scale.

But who’s counting?

“When I lived with Keesha, my first dog, we had a yard,” my mom says. “But Keesha wouldn’t play in the yard. She’d come and sit on the porch. So we’d go to the dog park. That’s what she wanted.”

Lots of people in our building have enormous dogs. They’re happy. We’re happy.

In fact, the mom says, a small dog can be a bigger challenge in an apartment. They yip and they yap. They run around like cats.

Just one point the Times forgot to mention. Dogs have crates. Even in our new spacious home, we have trouble finding a spot for my crate. My mom keeps trying to keep it out of the living room. Right now I’m in a hallway. Talk about being out of the way.

I tell my mom, “The only solution is to accept your dog crate as a piece of furniture. Who are you trying to impress, anyway?”

Good grief … all this fuss about a cat

Even my mom was surprised. She picked up the Week In Review Section of the New York Times to catch up on current events. Right on the front page of this section was a big story about a stray cat the author found in India. It’s the old story about a scraggly cat that recovered, with the help of a lot of love and good food.

Ophelia was a little scraggly when she came to live with us. She wasn’t exactly starving like that cat. She weighed fifteen pounds. She had an eye infection and she hated Creampuff. Now she’s got a healthy coat, she tolerates Creampuff and she still weighs fifteen pounds.

“The cat in the story liked to roam around,” my mom said. “That would never work here.”

We all feel sad about Creampuff sometimes. This ditzy calico loves the outdoors. With the right owner, she’d be an indoor/outdoor cat, my mom says. Alas, she’s destined to spend her life inside, as a city apartment cat. She seems happy. She purrs a lot.

And after all, what choices did she have? She wouldn’t have survived another month at that shelter. Let’s not go there.

But we’re still puzzled. How does a cat story merit all that space in a distinguished newspaper?

Sunny day with a cat

city dog and apartment cat enjoying sunFor once, Creampuff has the right idea. She’s snoozing in the sun. I’m sitting next to her so I can keep an eye on our ditziest housemate. We’re in Cathy’s office, trying to distract her from her work.

“Website makeover!” she mutters from time to time. “Hassle. Frustration.”

That’s where Creampuff and I get busy earning our food and treats. We lighten the mood. We give the mom perspective.

“Gracie, why are you lying in the sun?” my mom asks. “Dogs don’t tolerate heat well.”

True. Eventually I’ll move to my own bed and Creampuff will go off in search of new adventures. And in just a few minutes, I will nudge my mom with my cold nose, reminding her I need a walk. Her work can wait. I can’t.

Good grief…a muzzle.

Well, my mom finally did it. She made good on her promise to get me a muzzle if I didn’t stop eating unmentionable stuff in the dog park.

So here I’m back at the Belltown Dog Park, on top of my favorite wall, newly muzzled and totally pissed.

“She’s not miserable,” my mom said. “Her tail is up. She looks like a scuba diver.”

“She’s adjusting better than most dogs,” everyone agrees.

Busted. I am trying hard to look like a miserable, deprived, helpless dog. Not working.

Sometimes I try to pull the muzzle off. Sometimes I forget I have it on. I have to find a new way to play since up to now, it’s all about chewing and grabbing things with my mouth.

“Maybe in six months she’ll be fine on her own,” my mom said to my Aunt Sara, in an uncharacteristically optimistic prediction.

“We can always try.” Aunt Sara was neutral. She gives me treats even while I’m wearing my muzzle. And my mom gives me a treat before she puts the muzzle on, every single time. She admits to feeling a little ambivalent…but she’s not a bit undecided about those vet bills for my sensitive tummy.

Cats totally relaxing in their new home

Don’t they look like an old married couple? My mom says, “The cats are getting along much better since we moved. Everything was strange except…each other.”

Or else, I would add, they’re getting older and wiser. When a cat hisses, Cathy says, “Look, you either get along or you go back to the pound. You didn’t like the pound, did you? Both of you cats spent serious hard time in small cages. You really don’t want to go back there, do you?”

Nobody feels seriously threatened. We all know we’re not going anywhere. But somehow the cats pick up on Cathy’s energy and they seem to respect each other’s boundaries a little more.

The cats never go outside, except in their small crates on their way to the vet. So windows are a big deal to them, especially Creampuff.

Creampuff would have preferred to be an outdoor cat. The only problem was, nobody wanted a 2-year-old calico cat in Silver City, New Mexico. She had been in a cage for three months when Cathy came looking. Her calico cat Loretta had just died. (Loretta was named for the country music singer, Loretta Lynn, because she had whiny done-me-wrong yowl. I shudder when I think about it.)

The shelter staff persuaded Cathy to take Creampuff home. It was an easy sell. My mom usually takes the first dog or cat she sees at a shelter or (in my case) online. So Creampuff got a new home. Not perfect, but she’s alive and free to express her ditzy personality.

Creampuff wouldn’t last long on the outside. I’ve been there and I know. My mom says Creampuff once caught a mouse in her New Mexico house. But I suspect that mouse was even ditzier than Creampuff herself. Even my mom says, “We were the only house in the neighborhood with cats. So any mouse who ended up there wasn’t very bright.”

I rest my case. And these cats are resting as comfortably as any cats in Seattle, or maybe the world.

Does this dog need a muzzle?

Oh no. I’m finally busted.

The truth is, I am a nibbler and a grazer. As we walk along the street, I constantly look for food. We’re making some progress, my mom says. But every time I’m let loose for a good sniff, she worries that I’ve found a chicken bone (or worse).

Then there’s the dog park. I eat things that I am not allowed to mention in this blog. Things that, my mom says, are totally not in keeping with my royal image.

“Utterly gross,” the mom says.

“Delicious,” I say.

And once I start to eat, i won’t let go. Even if they yell, squirt or chase. I chew as I run.

After my last bout with tummy troubles, my wonderful Aunt Sara said, “How about getting Gracie a muzzle? A basket muzzle so she can drink and bark but not eat?”

My mom asked our vet. “Great idea!” our vet said.

I’m not thrilled.

“You won’t get sick as often,” my mom said. “You won’t have to skip meals and eat bland food for days on end.”

Hmm, We’ll have to see about that. The mom found a pet store that stocks muzzles. It’s about 20 minutes away and she hates to go anywhere so I may have a reprieve.

What are other dogs doing about this problem?

Good grief: a fountain for cats

My mom noticed that our chubby housemate, Ophelia, likes to drink water from cups and glasses.

“She’s just like Tiger, the cat who died just before we adopted her,” my mom says. “I always notice that a new cat seems to channel the cat who left us.”

Really? That’s not typical of my left-brained, logical mom. But Ophelia really does have peculiar drinking habits. Her last blood test showed no signs of any disease, so it’s purely behavioral, as my mom would say. Ornery, I’d add.

“Why don’t you get her a fountain?” the vet suggested. “Cats love running water.”

Alas, this suggestion came as my mom was putting away her credit card following Ophelia’s dental work.

“Maybe I could buy Ophelia a mansion,” the mom suggested. “Or a trip around the world.”

I like the last idea, especially if we get to stay home.

But then yesterday we were in Mud Bay Pet store, just 2 blocks away. We’re farther from a grocery store since we moved, but we are closer to the important things, like the dog park and this wonderful pet store. We had to buy cat food since we ran out between deliveries. Frankly, I’d just tell the cats to skip eating for a few days, but the mom wouldn’t go along with it. Apparently Ophelia could get sick again if she misses a meal. Let’s not go there.

As we were leaving, my mom noticed a water fountain designed for cats. It was $65 before taxes.

“Good grief,” she said. “Who’d buy this?”

The sales clerk explained that cats drink more water from these fountains. They stay healthy. And we could buy a smaller model for jsut $50.

“Let’s think about that one,” the mom said. “I’m still recovering from Ophelia’s dental bill.”

Good thinking, Mom. As we all know, Tiger lived to be twenty without benefit of a fountain. And I still have to ride the bus naked because the vet said a winter coat is not essential to my welfare and well-being.

But cats are made to be spoiled, my mom says wistfully.

And I’d look awfully cute in a dog-size winter coat, I silently remind her. City dogs get spoiled too.

Finally caught up on our sleep…

“Moving is exhausting,” the mom said. But finally last night we all got caught up on our sleep. My mom inherited a big new queen-size bed from the people who used to live here. It’s SO comfortable and there’s lots of room for everyone. Of course I take up most of the space. Ophelia takes up a lot of room too but my mom Cathy said, “No more snide remarks about Ophelia’s weight The poor thing just had dental surgery.”

That was a week ago. Mom. Ophelia’s eating everything in sight and then some.

My mom also made a startling discovery when she unpacked her clothes. “So many dress suits! I used to wear suits all the time. Might as well give them away, especially since I can’t wear shoes except running shoes and Birkenstocks.”

Then she counted up her t-shirts. We’ve said this before. If whoever dies with the most t-shirts wins, my mom is the Grand Champion. She put some in the box for Goodwill. I’m nudging her to add a few more.

But I’m not exactly home free. We counted up my bandannas. “Maybe you can share with some other dogs?” the mom said.

Fine with me. I don’t wear a coat in winter. I ride the bus naked – just the required collar and tags. Nobody notices.

Cat gets 2 teeth pulled

On Monday the mom took Ophelia to our wonderful vet, Dr. Clare. Our fattest housemate, the queen-sized Ophelia, was diagnosed with rotten molars. No comment. .

“She’ll feel better when these two teeth come out,” the vet said.

Really? Ophelia seems to be feeing just fine, as far as I can tell. She’s totally taken over the household, even though she’s by far the most junior member of our furry family. She grabs the best spot on the couch and the place of honor on my mom’s bed. Now she’s winning the contest we have going: Who can spend most money at the vet? With the expenses of her liver disease, right after she was adopted, and her dental surgery, Ophelia’s racking up the bills.

“It’s not her fault,” the mom said. “Gracie, you get sick bcause you eat junk in the park and on the sidwalk. That’s why we are getting you a muzzle.”

Royal princesses don’t wear muzzles, I tell the mom. She points out that eating the stuff I find in the dog park is not exactly a sign of royal breeding.

Time to change the subject. The vet tech called my mom to ask how Ophelia was doing. “Is she eating?” they wanted to know.

Please. We are talking about Ophelia here. She didn’t get to fifteen pounds by denying herself the good stuff.