Here I am in my new bed, fit for a princess.
You don’t think my mom bought it for me, do you? She found it downstairs, left by someone who was moving out. “Perfect for the cats,’ she said.
Good luck, cats. It’s mine now.
My paws get tired…
With the beautiful weather we’re having, my mom decided we should walk to her gym in the evening. Actually, she walks to the gym. I get dropped off at Downtown Dog Lounge to sit on the couch and hang out with my friend Summer and all the other dogs.
We walk about a mile and a half. Yesterday we were running late so my mom insisted we walk fast. No time for sniffing, she said. And besides, she added proudly, walking fast is better exercise.
Well, I sure don’t need to lose weight. I am in great shape. Maybe my mom could stand to drop a few inches here and here, but why do I have to go along with the program?
Cathy is very sensitive about weight, though, so I’m not saying a word. She holds the keys to my treats.
The Role of Food in Our Household
For the last few years, we’ve been pretty calm about food in our household. Mom is an omnivore. I’m famous for eating unmentionable garbage and stealing my mom’s food. The cats chewed on their crunchies.
Then everything changed. Cathy adopted Ophelia, who’s a food fuss. Ophelia insisted on eating canned food, which was supposed to be an occasional treat. My mom doesn’t want to mess with cans. After all, I eat crunchies. Why shouldn’t the cats? Who’s the superior species here?
So my mom finally got firm. At night she put down two plates of yummy Avoderm crunchies, one for each cat. Ophelia ran to her dish. Alas, she seemed to say, “no crunches.”
She gave Mom her best pathetic stare. Mom was unmoved. She had just rinsed out 3 cans for recycling. Enough!
So she ran to the other dish and sniffed. No crunchies.
Ophelia ran back and forth a couple of times before accepting the inevitable. She stalked away, fat plumy tail held high.
My mom was worried. “What if she won’t eat? What if she gets hepatic lipidosis? A big vet bill…”
Later that night we awoke to the sound of crunching. Sure enough, there was Ophelia, caught in the act. Ophelia looked at my mom and dashed away, muttering, “I was not eating. Don’t get any ideas.”
Could a cat be this smart? my mom wondered. She asked a couple of her human friends, by phone.
“Cats can be very manipulative,” said Mom’s friend Pat. “Don’t give in.”
Mom’s pretty stubborn herself. After all, I did serious crate time my first few months, till I convinced everyone I could be trusted to stay on the bed all night. I know the drill.
Anyway, I’ve had slim pickings around here myself. Mom downloaded a diet from the Internet and there’s not much for me to steal. No self-respecting dog would eat a cucumber and tomato salad. Whole grain bread? Not for me.
And that ditzy Creampuff keeps eating my food. I’d like to have a word with that adoption agency…if I knew how to use a phone.
My owner needs the exercise…so why do I get involved?
Yesterday Cathy decided she should drop by her gym for a quick workout. She was having withdrawal symptoms after her nearby gym branch closed, along with her killer Sunday workout.
Great idea, mom. But why did you drop me off at the dog lounge? I was ready for a nap.
Fortunately for me, I found some nice dogs whose owners had gone away for the weekend. Some of us are old friends by now. Even more fortunately, Summer brought me up front to hang out with her at the reception desk. So I got a good rest while my mom did her thing.
After she picked me up, Cathy took me across the street to the dog park. I connected with a rowdy French bulldog who let me chase him for a good half hour.
Cathy didn’t budge. She sat in the sun. I could have got away with anything.
Soon my tongue was hanging and even my dim-witted fanatical owner got the message. Time to go home and eat. Crunchies for me, carrots for my Mom.
Hopefully we’ll get a day of rest on Labor Day, but I doubt it.
Cat imitates art
Well, you’ve heard the saying, “Life imitates art.” Here’s an example.
My mom took this photo of Creampuff, our ditzy calico housemate, sound asleep on her favorite chair. Her body language says, “Don’t bother me while I’m sleeping.”
From this angle, Creampuff looks like a piece of abstract art. My mom was intrigued by the idea.
As far as I’m concerned, Creampuff’s a piece of work. No argument there.
Year of the Body (yeah, but whose…)
My mom has declared 2008-2009 the Year of the Body. Hers. She downloaded a book on healthy eating. She bought grains and leafy green stuff. She started back to meditating at least once a day. And she’s working out more than ever.
“By Christmas,” she says, “I want to have a whole new body.”
Of course, after setting all this in motion, she found something on the Internet about the danger of losing weight once you get past a certain age. She decided to ignore it.
Mom also cancelled her Cable TV. She has been so busy going to exercise class, she says, she has no more time to watch. And she wants to send me off on more walks with my Aunt Sara, since she’s going out more. That’s fine with me.
Our new housemate, Ophelia, is also on a diet. She refuses to eat dry food so she survives on a small amount of canned. She licks her wet food off each dry morsel.
Creampuff and I are the voices of normalcy, although Creampuff likes to eat my crunchies. I eat what my mom feeds me, plus treats, plus whatever disgusting stuff I find in the dog park.
And I’m the perfect size and shape.
More on racing in the rain…
My mom is still sighing over this book. 
And I have to admit: “That dog can write.”
“He lifts me easily; he cradles me, and I can smell the day on him. I can smell everything he’s done. His work, the auto shop where he’s behind the counter all day, standing, making nice with the customers who yell at him because their BMWs don’t work right and it costs too much to fix them….” Every word is perfect.
But this dog adores his owner, Cathy reminds me.
Describing Denny, Enzo writes, “He is so brilliant. He shines. He’s beautiful with his hand that grab things and his tongue that says thing and the way he stands and chews his food for so long…”
Cathy’s First Dog, Keesha, adored her that way. Me? She’s okay. I could have done worse. But brilliant? Beautiful? She’s just mom.
Art of racing in the rain…
My mom just lost it. She’s usually totally cool about everything she reads. She hates syrupy tear-jerkers. But she made the mistake of picking up this book about a dog: The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. It’s about a man named Denny who lives here in Seattle with his dog Enzo.
That dog Enzo got a whole book. He also got an owner with a life. Denny raced cars, married, fathered a child, fought a bitter custody battle, fought off a false accusation…I’m exhausted just reading about it. And there’s my mom, who won’t even drive in the rain, let alone race. Enzo is almost as smart as I am. But I think my sense of humor is more finely tuned.
Enzo wants to return to earth as a man. I have no desire to return to earth as a woman. Good grief. As a dog, I get to live honorably without getting married or having puppies. I get to play in the park while Cathy works. I admit: I’m luckier than most dogs. Still, I’ll take my own species, thank you very much.
I already know how to communicate with Cathy. She knows, “Out! Now!” and, “Hey, I’m getting restless. Time for a walk.” And even, “Sock? What sock? I thought that was dinner.” What more do I need?
There is a scene in this book where Denny says the final good-by to Enzo. And that’s where my mom melted. She said good-by to her old tabby cat, Tiger, just a few weeks ago. And she said the same thing. “It’s okay, Tiger. You can go now.”
We’re not giving anything away. The book begins sad. Enzo is literally on his last legs. He’s ready.
We dogs don’t care. We live for the moment. Like right now, I’m angling for a trip to the park. Or at least a long walk. My mom’s been muttering about Pike Place Market. She’s on some new health food kick since she started thinking about her own mortality.
Too bad dogs can’t be book reviewers. We’d have more books like the one Dean Koontz wrote about his dog Trixie, Life is Good. A happy dog, focused on her food dish, just the way a dog should be.
The Big Feline Takeover
It’s bad enough that Ophelia is taking over our home. Does she have to take over our blog too?
My mom insists we show a photo of Ophelia sitting on the couch. She seems to like high places where she can survey her queendom and feel she’s in charge.
From this angle, Ophelia looks almost like a normal cat. Don’t be fooled. She’s still a Big Girl.
New Cat is Taking Over
Good grief. Ophelia, our new housemate, has taken Tiger’s place on my mom’s bed. 
Of course, I get first priority. Here I am trying to warn Cathy about the takeover.
We’re just a few feet apart and Ophelia remains calm. Mom is thrilled.
Ophelia’s busy ignoring me. Let’s keep it it that way. Mom needs to make her bed but she doesn’t want to disturb this picture of harmony.