“Fat cats can jump.”

“Aha!” my mom cried, as she walked into her home office. “Ophelia can jump!”

Apparently there is an old movie, “White men can’t jump.” It’s about basketball so my mom likes it.

Ophelia is …well, a little plump. She has short legs. So we don’t expect to see her jump to counters. My mom feeds her on the kitchen floor, which means Ophelia gets to eat only while I’m in my crate or out. Theoretically that would mean she doesn’t eat as much, but when it comes to eating, Ophelia’s totally efficient. She absorbs every calorie she consumes and finds time to consume many calories at a rapid rate.

So my mom was astonished to see her on top of the computer desk, snuggling up to the desktop Mac.

Very funny, mom. First Ophelia displaces me from my couch. Now she’s taking Creampuff’s favorite spot next to the desktop computer. Ophelia is a big fat bully.

Alas, my mom adores her. Ophelia was designed to be spoiled, the mom says. She’s responding well. She purrs a lot. She clearly appreciates her life with us. And why shouldn’t she? Ophelia rules the house. She’s taking over my spots and she’s intruding on my blog. Doesn’t she look territorial – spreading herself all over Cathy’s desk?

Taking Time Off…Our “Dress for Un-Success” Way

My mom keeps bemoaning the fact that she will never be glamorous or gorgeous. She can’t walk across the room in most dress shoes. She’s seriously thinking of giving away most of her clothes when we move. She will keep just one emergency dress-up outfit and decline all invitations to anything where she can’t wear shorts, jeans or sweats. That’s my mom’s idea of going to heaven before she dies: never having to dress up again.

Last Sunday fit our description of “perfect way to take time off.” First my mom went to the gym where she did some Pilates and worked on her biceps. She likes George Sommerrock’s classes.

Then we got on the bus and headed out to West Seattle to see my Uncle Lance. He’ s my mom’s mysterious friend who refuses to let us use his real name…even his first name. My mom has a feeling we get invited just because of me. When my Uncle Lance gets his own dog, I will be invited to come over and play…and oh yes, my mom can tag along too.

My mom bought a couple of things at the Farmers Market (I had to stay outside and get fussed over). Then we went to the dog park. By then I was pretty tired but I managed to run around the grass and trees. It’s a great park: the real deal. No wood chips or cement with a fence. My mom suspects I used to be a country dog but I’m not telling. Like Uncle Lance, I guard my privacy.

Shortly after taking this photo, my Uncle Lance bundled us into his car to drive us home. He knows my mom’s navigation skills and sense of direction would get us home by way of Spokane. Even when he’s got GPS, she jinxes our journeys. We always get lost. No exception today.

We detoured about ten miles south. Ddon’t ask me how -I was stuffed in the back seat. Uncle Lance’s car is built like a space ship with doors that open and close. I have to jump in fast and get out of the way. Anyway, my mom said, we got a gorgeous view of Mount Rainier up close, just like a post card. I wouldn’t know. I was sound asleep by the time we left the park.

Dog Grooming Goes Wild

My mom just showed me this article from today’s New York Times: Where Creativity Wags Its Tail. Apparently there’s a contest to sculpt dogs fur into images…anything from a person to a dragon.

As a certified dog, I say, “Forget about it! No way!” My mom takes me to a groomer to get a bath and brushup. Period. No funny stuff in my fur. And I’ll keep the color I was born with, thank you very much.

According to these groomers, the dogs love all the attention. True. I love attention myself. When we go to the dog park, I always go over to people and ask for a rub or a hug. But stand still while somebody clips me? Getting dyed green or blue or yellow?

Not for me. Fortunately my mom is big on “simple and easy.” And we both value our nap time.

Dogs don’t do real estate,,,

Thank goodness! I have a small castle known as The Crate. I have a few vacation homes, otherwise known as dog beds. I also take over the cat bed since Ophelia has usurped my spot on the couch. That’s as far as we go.

My mom, on the other hand, seems determined to get herself into a condo. I had to listen to her swearing over the paperwork (which wasn’t too bad, thanks to her awesome dog-loving real esetate agent Sarah Odegaard). And I had to go along for the inspection. The inspectors immediately recognized my role.

“She gets to decide where you live,” they said seriously.

My mom went out for coffee with Sarah while they gave the place the once-over. It was a nice day, although a little warm. They had to sit outside because coffee shops don’t take dogs anymore. All this fresh air was too much. We were exhausted the next day.

My mom has started thinking about hiring a mover. “We’re very close,” she told me. “She muttered something about title and negotiating on items to be fixed. Fixed? You lost me there, mom.

We’re getting rid of a lot of stuff so the movers wll have a lighter load. I’m nominating a new home for our housemate, Ophelia. Mom put her on a diet but it’s not working. At this rate we will need to rent a whole truck just for her.

Do we need a separate truck to move this cat?
Do we need a separate truck to move this cat?

Uh oh…there may be a moving van in our future.

The mom has ruled. The condo looks beautiful. The price is excellent. Interest rates are still good. She’s been dreaming about the neighborhood ever since I’ve known her. So I may be getting a new identity as an official Belltown Dog.

Mom is already starting to worry about finding a moving company. She wants to get rid of a lot of our stuff. “I’m tired of living with clutter,” she says. However, she assures me, we will definitely take my crate and all the dog beds.

I heard her on the phone, saying, “It’s like being dealt a hand of aces. Great condo the owners have priced for a quick sale. Great interest rates. I’m eligible for a tax credit because we delayed buying a home all this time. The loan has been verbally approved.”

Personally, I plan to nap through the move. My mom says she will either put me in day care or hire someone to take care of me so I’ll be out of the way.

Great concept, although I’d like to stick around and supervise. Did we tell you I am a herding dog? I’d love to prod the moving people to move a little faster and go easy on the crate.

Our real estate life

My mom has entered me in this blog challenge created by her friend, colleague and mentor, Connie Green. So now we have to blog every day for a month. We forgot this weekend because we were back looking at condos.

My mom fell in love with one in Belltown, a trendy neighborhood. “This building has been around awhile,” she said. “It’s not going anywhere. The people are nice. It’s well managed. Oh yes…it’s two blocks from the dog park and two blocks the other way from my favorite coffee shop in Seattle. And iti s pet-friendly!”

She found a 2-bedroom condo at a good price. “Never fear, Gracie,” she said. “There will always be money for treats and dog walks. We’ll find a place for your crate, too.”

Now, she says, she can have a proper office with windows and light. One bedroom is built like a corner.

Some places just allow two pets per unit, which seems like just the right number. We could lose Ophelia or that ditzy Creampuff. But the mom will never let that happen. “I’m a 3-pet person till the day I die!” she says proudly.

Given the way she works out that’s not any time soon. However, her favorite bakery will be very close by in Belltown. Either we will have more walks or the mom will need to develop some willpower.

“It’s still up in the air,” she says. “We have inspection, financing, and worst of all, moving. I may have written the book on moving but my stomach hurts just thinking about it.”

Real Estate Interferes With This Dog’s Life

My mom has got it into her head, “Maybe this is a good time to buy a condo.” Never mind that for years she swore, “Never buy a condo. It’s like having fifty landlords. All the other owners influence your life. The Board can be kooky. Who needs it?”

Well, now that condo prices have come down in Seattle, she’s looking. I think she’s 70-80% serious. She has a great real estate agent, Sarah Odegaard. We know she’s great because Cathy met her in the Regrade Dog Park.

Sarah has a big dog and lives in a high rise herself. She was single for a long time. So she understands the whole scoop (pardon the expression) on single urban living with dogs. She is remarkably patient with Cathy’s requirements. Must be on multiple bus lines because Cathy refuses to drive in Seattle. Must allow me and the two cats legally. Must have lots of sunlight. Must not be at street level. Must be in a neighborhood where our dog sitter, Sara Kimmel will come and take me for walks. (Sara said my mom is not the first client who refused to move outside her service area.)

The mom gets on Craigslist and emails a dozen suggestions to Sarah the real estate agent. (Never mind that Sarah has already promised to look through MLS, which is much more comprehensive and up to date than Craigslist.) Then she emails again to say she changed her mind or found more listings. Then she starts to feel like this is too much work and she says, “Let’s go for a walk, Gracie.”

Yes! Especially when she remembers to grab a handful of treats before we head out the door.

Just thinking about all this is enough to give a small dog a big headache. But it gets worse. My mom feels that I should be part of this experience. “After all, Gracie,” she says, “you have to live there too. And if somebody frowns at us when you’re with me, we know it’s the wrong place for us.”

Of course, just owning a dog has cut out many potential locations for my mom. That’s fine with her. “If they don’t allow dogs they’re probably uptight, nasty people,” she says. “Who needs them?”

She still loves living in this beautiful rental apartment, even with the ceiling that’s getting repaired. “People sneer at one bedroom apartments,” she says. “But this one is so well laid out. I even have a separate office alcove. There’s more than enough room. The location is phenomenal. It’s close to perfect.”

I agree. I have plenty of choices: cat bed, dog bed, Cathy’s bed and more. I would have the corner of the sofa but Ophelia has completed her takeover. I have been officially displaced.

And we really don’t want a huge space. “In New York, Philadelphia or Seattle, the city is your playground,” my mom says. “I don’t want to feel I have to spend all my time in my home because it cost so much. I want to spend money on ballet, symphony, Storm games, theatre, coffee shops and taxicabs.”

I agree. When Cathy’s not working, we should be in the dog park or walking around upper Queen Anne. Or I should be out playing with my Aunt Sara while Cathy goes to the gym or works in a coffee shop.

Meanwhile, I am exhausted. We looked at five places yesterday. Cathy didn’t get excited about any of them. However, she and Sarah the real estate agent were very impressed with my car manners. I sit in back very quietly, looking out the window. Well, why wouldn’t I? It’s better than being left behind. And Cathy needs to remember we need LOTS of room for my crate.

Makes me proud to be a dog

My mom just read me an artcle from the New York Times. Apparently dogs are being trained to help mlitary veterans deal with combat stress. For instance, if a vet is afraid to go into a crowded room, the dog can set up a barrier. Dogs even dial 911, although I can’t imagine how. My paws are too big for my mom’s phone.

Here’s the article.

Apparently dogs are so helpful these vets cut back on their medication or were able to stop medication entirely. Wow! I’ve always said dogs are better than doctors and my mom tends to agree. She drops tons more money at the veterinarian’s office than at her own medical services.

OK, I probably won’t be trained as a service dog. But I do my part. Yesteday my mom and I were walking to the bus stop. My mom was determined to comine a walk in Upper Queen Ane with a trip to pick up her books at the library.

As we were dashing along Mercer Street, a woman waiting for own bus called out, “Ma’am – hey!” My mom stopped dead in her tracks, wondering what she had done or dropped. Of course that meant I had to stop too. We both turned around.

“Can I pat your dog?” the woman asked. She looked normal to my mom and smelled normal to me. My mom had to say, “Sorry, we want to catch a bus.”

This happens all the time. When I’m sitting politely in my mm’s lap, all kinds of people pat and poke me for a dog fix . It’s a good thing I’m a patient, gentle sort of dog. But i know these people need something in their lives and for the moment, it’ s me.

Hey, how about barking out a message to President Obama. We could cut health care costs if everybody got issued a dog at birth. They’d get more exercise. They’d lower their blood pressure and have fewer heart attacks. They’d be kinder to others and our prison population would drop. Not to mention the thousands of nice mixed-breed dogs like me, who have secret ties to royalty….the list goes on.

Anyway, thanks to the New York Times for another good dog story. Makes me proud of my species. People go to war and it’s only right that dogs bring them peace.

And now back to my nap. I’m stuck with the cat bed since Ophelia commandeered my cushion on the couch. But hey, I’m not into fighting. No cat gets PTSD on my watch.

A Non-Denominational Discussion of Easter Weekend

A Hot Cross Bun
A Hot Cross Bun

Yesterday my mom decreed that we should go for a walk. I see more walks in my future as my mom has been indulging in hot cross buns from Dahlia bakery, sinfully delicious and made just once a year, on Easter weekend. Now she wants to go on extra walks to compensate.

As usual, there is no justice in this world for dogs. Did I get even one bite of a bun? No way. Muffins and treats are off limits to dogs in our house. To be fair, they’re usually off limits to the mom, but she believes in species-appropriate treats, judiciously shared.

My mom won’t allow me to discuss religion or politics on my blog. But isn’t there some church out there that believes it’s sinful to refuse to share with your dog? If so, I have a mom who could use some conversion. I suspect her friend Bill from New York would belong to such a church, if it exists.

“Forget it, Gracie,” my mom said.

Memo to self: If you ever get adopted again, choose an owner who can’t read dog minds.

“Gracie,” my mom continued, “if you eat even a few bites of this bun, you will get sick. You will keep us both awake all night. You might have to miss your run with your Aunt Sara — and that is the highlight of your week.d”

Memo to self: Never choose an owner who studied logic.

It’s a moot issue, of course. I doubt I’ll ever be in a position to choose another owner (although if I steal a hot cross bun the question — and some voices — may be raised). And if anything happens to Cathy, she wants me to go to her friend Bill, who believes spoiling your dogs should not be reserved for Sundays and holidays. No argument from this dog.

Photo credit:

So what’s the big deal…

Of course I sleep. Dogs sleep most of the time. So do cats.

What’s unusual, my mom says, is that dogs and cats rarely sleep together. she keeps taking pictures of me with Ophelia on our own special corner of the couch.

This time I got to the couch first and Ophelia went into the dominant sleeping position that only a cat can take.

“What’s wrong with your dog bed?” my mom asks. “It’s nice and fuzzy and you would have room to stretch out.”

“Who cares?” I say. “The important thing is that Ophelia’s getting way too confident in this household. She’s the most recent acquisition. She started out as a timid, fearful feline and now…she’s taken over.”

Alas, my mom is the kind of person who roots for the underdog. She’s thrilled to see Ophelia making such great progress. She’d like to see Ophelia and Creampuff getting along, instead of this triangle where both cats adore the dog.

Well, what’s not to love? Total strangers come up to say, “Aww….what a cute dog.” Even a cat can recognize an adorable housemate when she sees one.

Meanwhile, back to the nap.