Spring is coming (and not a moment too soon)

My mom and I are both ready for winter to be over. Mom was sure she had put away her big parka  for the last time, but no: yesterday was really cold. We walked to the UPS store to pick up some packages. On the way back, we found ourselves in a snowstorm. My muzzle was covered with fat, white flakes.

But my mom keeps pointing to signs of spring. On our morning walk, she said, “Gracie, look — crocuses! First sign of spring!”

She tried to get me to go over and sniff them. “It would be a great photo op,” she said.

But why would I want to sniff flowers? That’s what cats do. I could care less. So here I am sniffing an old potato chip wrapper. Maybe I’ll find a five-year-old chicken bone. Much more interesting. Who’s going to eat a crocus?

So I woke her up at 5…big deal!

Yesterday I woke my mom at 5:30 AM (not 5, as she claims). I demanded to Go Outside, immediately. Since we live on the third floor of a city building, Mom had to put on her coat and shoes. She had to snap on my leash and grab her keys. We had to ride the elevator.

Fortunately, my mom sleeps in her sweats in winter and old gym shorts in summer. She says she needs to be ready to answer the door or go out for a fire alarm at a moment’s notice. Personally, I think she just doesn’t want to shop for proper night attire.

It’s all the same to me. I’m naked 24/7.

“Gracie, it’s Sunday morning,” she moaned. “The papers haven’t even arrived yet. Can’t you let me sleep another hour?”

C’mon, mom. it’s good for you. You need to get to the gym. I need to go to the Dog Lounge.

Oh no. Mom dialed a familiar number. “Hi, Summer. It’s Gracie’s mom here.” (She really says that when she calls the dog lounge or the vet. A Freudian analyst would have a field day.) “Gracie’s been a little…um..her tummy seems…I can still bring her in? Terrific.”

Whew. Thank goodness Summer has some common sense. I wouldn’t want to miss my favorite day at the Dog Lounge.

And I wasn’t sick at all. Just to be safe, mom gave me rice and a small serving of dog food last night. I was hungry! Since I’m not doing anything suspicious, she gave me bigger helpings this morning. We’re almost back to normal.

Dogs driving cars? No way!

My mom just came across this cool post on another blog, this one written by a human. Put your paw here to read the full story.

My mom would never let me ride with anybody in the front seat. When she had the First Dog, the sainted Keesha, she had a Toyota Corolla. Keesha was trained to ride in the back seat — always.

Now she lives in Seattle and we mostly ride buses. But sometimes we get rides with Cathy’s friends and acquaintances. When I go along, I sit in the back seat and look out the window. That’s the appropriate place for a CUPPIE – a Canine Urban Princess. I deserve to be chauffeured around.

When I first moved in with Cathy, I didn’t know much about cars. I sit on Cathy’s lap on buses, so I figured I’d do the same. We practiced with my Uncle Lance’s car, a Toyota Camry. Cathy held on to my leash so I wouldn’t leap through the window. As if! Why would I leave a soft comfy car to run in the traffic? But it makes her feel better.

Now I’m a pro. I sit up straight or sleep on the back seat.  Uncle Lance is especially grateful that I never, ever mess up the car. If I need to toss my cookies or do my business, I wait till we have arrived at our destination.

Why wouldn’t I? I want to be invited back.

No wonder I eat cat food…

In our household, we are not limited to species-specific behavior. Real dogs chew catnip.

And look who’s taken over my bed: our ditzy housemate, Creampuff. This bed is way too big for her but she’ll stay here forever, just to make me sleep somewhere else. Creampuff eats my food, too.

Unlike humans, we’re not having identity crises. “You’re comfortable with yourself,” my mom says approvingly.

She should know. She’s pretty comfortable herself, doing pretty much whatever she pleases most of the time.

Creampuff the Cat, posing for “cute”

Creampuff tends to be the low cat on the totem pole. Ophelia took Tiger’s place as Top Cat and of course I take up a lot of space.

Creampuff doesn’t mind. She’s my ditziest housemate. If she were a human, she’d be Miss Congeniality in a beauty pageant.

Creampuff plays with everybody. She even sniffs at me when I walk by. She eats my food and takes over my dog bed. She’s determined to become friends with Ophelia. My mom thinks it’s gonna happen. Ophelia used to hiss at Creampuff but Ophelia’s running out of energy. She’s no kitten.

Here’s Creampuff looking absolutely adorable. That’s what Creampuff does best. She’s the most photogenic member of our household. She’s just taking a break in Cathy’s closet, getting white hair all over Cathy’s clothes.

“No point buying nice furniture or clothes,” Mom says. “Not with all these animals.”

I’ve been living with my mom for over three years and I understand what’s going on. Mom has no desire to buy nice clothes or furniture. We’re just an excuse.

Here’s Creampuff

We walk in the sunshine

Yesterday my mom decided we should go for a long walk. The weather was beautiful, she said, and she wanted more exercise. Have you ever noticed that when Mom wants exercise, I have to walk too?

We took a bus to the top of Queen Anne hill (thank goodness – it’s very steep). We walked to the pet store. So many wonderful dog treats! I couldn’t wait to see what Mom would buy me.

Bad news.

“Gracie, you have enough treats,” my mom said. “This time we are getting something for Ophelia. She’s been playing with pieces of paper and I want her to have something she can’t swallow.”

Have you noticed that Ophelia’s taking over? My mom feels a special bond with that cat because she nursed Ophelia to health last fall. You’d think Ophelia would hate the person who shoved food down her throad twice a day. But no: there’s a mutual adoration society in our home.

The people at the pet store were very helpful. “Here’ s a catnip toy,” they suggested. “She couldn’t swallow this one.”

“But Gracie could,” my mom said, giving me the eye. “And Gracie will play with everything. She loves catnip.” Right, mom. Tell the world.

We walked away with a catnip log that’s not even interesting. What a wasted trip. And when I say “walked,” I mean that literally. We walked all the way down the hill to our home.

“Every time we pass a bus stop,” Cathy says, “Gracie wants to stop and wait for a bus!” Well, why not? My mom let a perfectly good Number 2 Bus – our favorite – get away.

“Walking is good for us,” she said firmly.

Ophelia loves her new cat toy. She has no dignity for a cat of her age and size. I’m too tired to care. And I need to save my energy for my trip to the park with Aunt Sara. We CUPPIEs need our beauty sleep.

Heroic Dogs in Fiction: Who Needs ‘Em?

My mom Cathy has a serious addiction. She devours murder mysteries, although she says, “I’m getting fussier and it’s harder to find good ones these days.” Her current fave authors are Marcia Muller, Lisa Scottoline, Margaret Maron and (especially) Sharyn McCrumb. But she reads others too and she just picked up Dog On It by Spencer Quinn.

“The best dog mysteries feature Susan Conant’s Holly Winter,” she told me. “But I keep trying, This one isn’t bad.”

She read some paragraphs aloud to me while I pretended to sleep. This book is about an amazing dog named Chet who was trained as a police dog. Chet is owned by Bernie, who was (apparently) trained as a police offficer. Bernie is the standard down and out detective, driving a beat-up car and scrambling to make a buck from divorce cases. Of course Chet goes along for the  ride (literally) and writes the books.

Chet’s not a bad writer, as dogs go. I like to think I’m the best dog writer in the world, but my mom tells me to be realistic. “And this dog is a real hero,” she says. “He’s always there to protect his owner from the bad guys. He sniffs out drugs. He finds his way home when he’s kidnapped.”

Well, not exactly. There’s a bit of coincidence here and there.

“Gracie, that dog keeps saving his owner. He’s so loyal he skips eating sometimes.”  We both know I will never, ever turn down food.

“There’s one scene where  the dog’s chewing helps rescue the owner. There’s hope for you yet,” Mom says.

I don’t deign to look up from my nap. Since when do I have to measure up to some fictional dog who is (at least fictionally) trained as a police dog?

Luckily for me, Mom thought the book was good but not great. “The plot gets a little far-fetched,” she said. “All those Russians.”

Good. I get to be appreciated for the CUPPIE that I am. And now it’s time for our pre-bedtime walk.

So I chewed up a toy: big deal!

This morning Mom noticed I was coughing and trying not to choke. At first she was worried.

But when I coughed up some cloth, she caught on. “Gracie, you are chewing up the toy you got as a birthday gift – the nice yellow bear you got from Summer. There’s a big hole in the bear’s paw. You’ve got cotton filling all over the floor.”

Me? I tried to look innocent. Mom took the toy away and gave me one of those toys that promise to be chew-proof. Boh-ring!

“From now on,” Mom said, “you stay where I can see you. You choose: sofa or dog bed.”

So I’m curled up tight on a corner of the sofa, instead of sprawled out on Mom’s nice big bed.  The dog bed is nice too, but it’s on the floor. We CUPPIEs don’t like to sit on floors. (A CUPPIE is a Canine Urban Princess. Haven’t you been reading this blog?)

“And if you ever leave the bed to eat cat food,” Mom said,  “you’re in the crate for the night.”

Yeah, yeah. Good thing you’re not a human mom. Your kids would be in therapy for life.

Don’t tell Mom, but the crate’s not so bad. I get a peanut butter kong to keep me company. Who needs anything else?