Back to normal (more or less)

After the cat food fiasco, my mom has been feeding me small amounts of crunchies mixed with rice. I’m eating.  I’m happy and healthy. See, mom? No bit deal. I haven’t dragged you out at 2 AM for the last two nights.

The cats are another story. Cathy doesn’t want me eating their food so she put their dishes on the kitchen counter. Creampuff enjoys jumping up. Ophelia, who’s not exactly skinny, says that waddling is more her style. So Cathy lifts he up a few times a day, hoping she’ll get the message.

Ophelia’s not into messages. I think she was spoiled rotten in her first home. But give her credit: she’s adjusted well, all things considered. Some cats hide in a closet for a whole year. Or a lifetime.

Ophelia just hides in her kitty condo.

Dog turning into a cat

Good grief! Friday evening I started to get sick. My tummy was pounding. So I dragged my mom out half a dozen times. She didn’t get much sleep.

“The vet gave me some miracle pills to nip this in the bud,” she grumbled. “But I ran out.”

So Saturday morning, we were off to the vet first thing. Well, almost. Mom had to do some work on her computer and I seemed to be better.

We saw that nice Dr. Kira. I always enjoy coming when she’s the vet on duty.

But not today. Dr. Kira said, “Gracie is too fat! She should eat 2/3 cup of food, twice a day. And cut back on the treats.”

There goes the neighborhood.

I also have to get my teeth cleaned. And my mom keeps shoving pills down my throat. She refused to feed me last night.

“Your tummy needs a rest,” she said firmly. “And so do I.”

Well, I took matters into my own four paws. Mom was feeling relaxed and happy after hearing the Jupiter Symphony at a concert downtown. We went to bed early.  I curled up on my cushion at the foot of Mom’s bed, like I’m supposed to. But I was hungry.

Mom was so exhausted she didn’t hear me jump off the bed and head for the kitchen, where I polished off all the cat food. Usually she wakes up when I move an inch.

When Mom woke up this morning, I was lying next to her, in Ophelia’s spot, on Ophelia’s cat cushion. Ophelia was pacing around looking disgruntled.

Mom leaped out of bed. “Gracie, you are not a cat! What are you doing here? Oh no…” She ran to the kitchen.

Sure enough. I couldn’t hide the evidence: two empty plates on Mom’s kitchen floor.

“Gracie, either you start sleeping in your crate again or the cats will learn to eat on the counter,” Mom said.

Good luck, Mom. Ophelia refuses to jump. I think that cat is afraid of heights.

Luckily, I seemed fine. Mom took me for a walk. I showed no ill effects of scarfing down two helpings of cat food. Mom is going to take me to the dog lounge, following our usual Sunday routine.

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.

Old dogs are the best

I’m getting on in years. My mom keeps looking at me and saying, “Gracie, you’re almost six and half. You’ll be seven in October.”

Yeah, yeah. I can count. Well, actually not, because I’m a dog, but I know I’m not getting younger. I sleep more. I tolerate the cats.

My mom gets anxious because she thought her First Dog, the sainted Keesha, would live forever. Cathy and Keesha were very close. Keesha had to teach Cathy how to be a dog owner. Thankfully, she’s a quick learner, so my job is easier.

Then my mom read a news article to me. “A ten-year-old dog won the Westminster Dog Show,” she said. “For a dog, ten is the new six.”

True. At six and a half, I’m like a three-year-old. I chew socks. I play hard at the dog park. And I still like to give the cats a little grief. Especially that fuzzy Ophelia, our new housemate. She’s nine and still going strong. And Creampuff still plays like a kitten.

My mom was thrilled to realize I might be around for awhile. And she was even happier with Gail Collins’s column, which declared, “Old is in.” Collins pointed to Stump, the 10-year-old dog who won Westminster, as well as new heroes like the  US Airways pilot.

I’m still young enough to chew on Cathy’s socks. Who cares about anything else?

Smartest dog breed? Just look at my picture.

My mom Cathy was watching a video at Petzume, “10 Dumbest Dog Breeds.” She kept looking over at me, with a critical eye. Luckily I don’t look like any of those breeds.

Anyway, Cathy gave up on the list when she came to “Dumb Breed Number 7 (or was it 9?): the Chow Chow. Cathy’s first dog, the sainted Keesha, was part chow. True, Mom says, she had all the qualities listed. Fiercely loyal to her owner. Jealous. Likes to be the center of attention.

“But Keesha was so smart,” Cathy says. “When I said, ‘Want to go for a ride?’ she would go right to the car. When I said, ‘Walk?’ she would jump up and wag her tail, ignoring the car completely.”

Then Cathy looked up the 10 smartest breeds, defined as “easiest to train.” The smartest (according to this video) is…a Border Collie?

“Come on,” Mom said. “Border collies train their owners. One border collie in New Mexico taught its owner to throw frisbees for hours.”

Whew. What a relief. For awhile there I thought mom was going to administer an IQ test, although she thinks all those tests are hogwash.

Then she got distracted by a cool video on that site: How cats wake up their owners. “Just like Creampuff,” she nodded approvingly.

I went back to sleep, dreaming of my own video. How Owners Wake Up Their Dogs (and why they shouldn’t).

Dog Gets Royal Treatment at Dog Lounge

Just about every Sunday my mom takes me to the Downtown Dog Lounge. She works out in her gym while I get a good workout with all the other dogs. It’s nice being around my own species. Cats just don’t play well with others.

I like the name, Dog Lounge better than “doggie day care.” Much more fitting for a Canine Urban Princess – a CUPPIE – like me. And let’s face it. Half the time I’m lounging around on the couch when my mom comes to pick me up.

“Did Gracie play? Was she good?” My mom asks these questions every time.

“She’s always good,” they say.

Now, those folks know how to treat a dog. Here’s my adopted Big Sister Summer. We adore each other.

“Gracie, you’ve come a long way for an adopted rescue mutt,” my mom said when she took this picture.

Hah. I’m just achieving my destiny.

Retail therapy for dog and owner

Here’s Cathy’s fashion consultant, Elle, the manager of Peridot, where Cathy bought her winter hat, coat dress, and cool handbag.

Elle won’t let Cathy leave the store with something that looks bad on her. Thank goodness. After all, my reputation’s on the line when we’re out walking together.

Elle has good taste in dogs as well as clothes. I love her dog Scout. And see how she’s rubbing my butt in just the right place? Mmmm. That woman knows the way to a canine heart, even without feeding me treats.

Dog and owner go shopping

My fashion-challenged mom shops with me at Peridot. My job is to tug my leash when we go past the store, so she’ll go in and look around. She’s getting inspired by all the new fashions.

Cathy is very proud of her parka, which she claims is at least 15 years old. She refuses to buy another winter coat.

Fortunately, she is looking into buying some new blue jeans, because she wants to show off her new body. If you’ve been following this blog, you know she went on a special diet and has been exercising 3 or 4 times a week at the gym. And we walk…and we walk. We’re both in great shape.

“Yes, maybe I could get more clothes,” she tells me. “But I have no place to wear them. I work at home and my only social events are held at the dog park. So I spend my clothing budget on you, your dog walker, your treats, and …oh yes, your vet bills when you eat junk.”

Time to change the subject. And now you see why I’m going naked. If Mom isn’t buying herself a new winter coat, you can bet I won’t get one either.

Dog gets help for fashion-challenged owner

My mom  doesn’t shop much. But she likes to visit Peridot, a store close to where we live in Lower Queen Anne. It’s pronounced “perry-dough.”They have very trendy clothes.I like Peridot because they always make me feel welcome. Sometimes the manager brings her dog, Scout, one of my favorite neighborhood dogs.

Cathy likes Peridot because the staff keeps her out of trouble. Here she’s wearing her winter hat, which they advised her to buy. Usually she grabs whatever’s on sale and covers her ears. She gets a lot of compliments on that hat.

I like that hat too. All that delicious wool. And those buttons! I could chew a whole morning on those buttons.

My mom said, “Gracie, if you eat this hat, you are going right back to the pound.”

Yeah, right. First of all, I wasn’t in a pound when Cathy adopted me. I was in a foster home. They won’t take me back.

Anyway, who’s kidding who? I know Cathy won’t send me anywhere. After all, Ophelia’s still here, after 5 weeks of force feeding, a big vet bill and a long sojourn in our laundry room. And she’s a useless ball of fur, not a hard-working dog like me.

But just in case, I haven’t so much as nibbled that hat. For one thing, Cathy is getting better at keeping woolly tasty tidbits out of my reach.

Not to worry. Cathy’s socks will tide me over to next winter.