Here’s my mom, Cathy, trying to hold our new housemate, Ophelia. 
As you can see, Ophelia’s a big gal. I take up less room on Cathy’s lap, for heaven’s sake.
Adopting our new housemate
Good grief. We can’t have any peace around here.
We just said sad good-bys to Tiger. Well, my mom Cathy was sad. I’m philosophical. Cats come. Cats go.
We went to the Seattle Animal Shelter, just to look. Cathy’s neighbors, Diana and Rachel, offered to give us a ride. Yep…you read that right. Us. I went along too. Cathy wanted to show the Shelter folks what a good pet owner she is.
Naturally I stole the show. Everyone kept saying, “What a beautiful dog.”
One of the staff volunteers gave me a toy.
Diana, who drove us down, is holding my leash firmly. I’m waiting for Cathy to finish the paperwork. Isn’t this dumb? When she adopted me, my foster mom just drove me down. She could tell Cathy would be a great owner. This Shelter is more complicated.
And here’s Cathy with the Adoption Volunteer who helped her choose Ophelia. And me. Do I look as bored as I feel?
And here’s the adoptee herself. Can you tell she’s overflowing her carrier? Mom is making all kinds of noise about kitty aerobics.
No problem. I get my aerobics in the park, thank you very much.
But there’s at least one silver lining. With a 17-pound cat, nobody’s looking at my waistline. Welcome, Ophelia!
Dog to Mom: “You’ve lost your mind…”
Mom seems to think our calico housemate Creampuff is lonely. “She needs a cat friend,” she says.
I think Creampuff is ditzy. “She needs an IQ boost,” I say.
But who listens to a dog? Mom fell in love with this kitty at the Seattle Animal Shelter.
There’s her mug shot on the right..
“Meets my specifications,” Cathy says. “Already spayed and declawed. Over 5 years old. Gets along with other animals. Mellow.”
“Read the fine print,” I say. “Overweight. Needs grooming. Spent 30 days in a cage so probably has some issues.”
“Ophelia. A beautiful name,” Cathy’s neighbors said.
“Ophelia? Not for a cat. What about Furball or Fatso?” Cathy said.
For once we are in agreement. But I have a feeling there’s a Fat Furball in our future.
OK, I admit it: we need a new kitty!
Creampuff seems lost without Tiger. She’s running around, jumping and generally getting herself into trouble. Cathy wants time to get used to Tiger’s absence, but she’s also looking through ads on petfinder.com.
I vote for a kitty who’s humbler than Tiger and smarter than Creampuff. Cathy says I get to go help choose our next housemate. Like I really get a vote.
Meanwhile, I will enjoy at least one more day of one less cat.
Good-by to our housemate…
My mom has been hovering over Tiger for the last month. She would get so excited when Tiger ate a few bites of food or jumped up to the couch. Yesterday, Tiger stumbled as she tried to navigate from the living room to her favorite spot in Cathy’s closet. She couldn’t jump anymore.
So Cathy bundled up Tiger in her trusty backpack (“Tiger hates carriers”), grabbed my leash and we caught a cab to the vet. The tech asked if I wanted to say good-by, but I declined. Tiger’s been living on borrowed time. I haven’t teased her in ages.
Tiger has been a part of Cathy’s life for over 14 years and Cathy was feeling really sad. “Worse than losing Keesha,” she said.
I think I’m worth ten cats, but that’s another story.
The good news is I scarfed some leftover canned food that Cathy bought for Tiger’s sensitive palate. Yum!
The bad news is we’re probably getting another cat. The ditzy Creampuff gets lonely. I’d like to show her what lonely really is but my mom is in a fragile state. My job is to help Cathy keep some perspective on what’s really important, like treats and toys.
Dog owner feeling sad
My mom Cathy has been feeling sad lately. Our housemate, Tiger the tabby cat, has been walking around on her last paws, as they say. She’s getting ready to cross the bridge, my mom says. More likely, that great sandbox in the sky.
Tiger has been the dominant force in our household since I joined up. She gets into my crate. She takes over my favorite dog bed. She bosses everybody around.
But Cathy says, “Tiger has been with me for just over 14 years. That’s a large chunk of my life. She’s just such a great cat.” She pats Tiger and says, “It’s okay, Tiger. You’ve served your mission. You can go peacefully.”
I’d like to say Tiger is past caring, but in fact she’s pretty alert, especially for a cat who’s probably close to 20. (Cathy adopts only older animals. At three, I barely qualified.) That’s 91 in human years. Tiger still jumps up on the couch. She snoozes in the sun. She finds the litter box (thank goodness).
But she’s not eager to eat her dinner. She might nibble a few bites from a freshly opened can. And then she gets that look in her eye like, “I don’t need this anymore.”
Cathy was telling someone, “Intellectually, I know it’s time to say good-by. I know she’s had a great life. Most cats would give their right paws to have a life like Tiger’s. But…she’s so special.”
So Cathy’s giving Tiger sub-Q fluids. She’s waiting for her regular vet to get back for a final opinion.
My job is to insist that we carry on. We must continue to go to the Dog Park as often as possible. And I bark at Tiger, just to keep things normal around here. Tiger still hisses but she’s lost the spark.
Luckily Cathy has a new teleseminar series — lots of work. It will be good for her. And I have to admit, she’s a pretty darn good seminar leader.
Dog-gone good Sundays
My mom Cathy keeps busy so she likes to combine her projects and errands. Yesterday she needed to go food shopping and take me for a walk, so we went to Pike Place Market. It’s a leading tourist attraction, especially in summer. Perfect or a CUPPIE: right downtown and dogs allowed.
I like Pike Place Market. All those tourists miss their dogs and they make a fuss over me. Usually I can scarf up some forbidden food. Yesterday I had a big piece of pizza crust in my mouth when my mom stopped and, right in front of everybody, yelled, “Drop!” She pulled that tasy tidbit right out of my mouth. Sigh.
But another reason I like Pike Place market is this: I can usually persuade my mom to stop by the dog park on the way home. On weekends she’s ready for some friendly conversation and there’s always at least one familiar face for her. I get extra running time.
And yesterday I got a bonus. Cathy was so tired she was falling asleep over her laptop. She didn’t notice I’d grabbed a hunk of cheese until it was almost gone. Yum! See, I’m saving her from all those calories.
Cathy doesn’t agree. Luckily it was the low-end cheddar. “If I’d bought Double Gloucester, you’d be in the dog house,” she told me firmly.
Good while it lasted. Off to another nap. Maybe next time we’ll stop by 3 Dog Bakery because I am named after the founder’s dog. The fact that they have awesome peanut buter treats is completely irrelevant.
Pill-popping pets
According to the New York Times, more and more dogs are taking psychoactive drugs. There’s a whole article in the magazine.
My mom Cathy wonders if I can take a pill so I will stop chewing.
You won’t catch me doing drugs though. I chew because I like the taste of socks. Anxiety is not a word in my vocabulary. If I were any calmer I’d be a zombie.
Why don’t those dogs just get more exercise? Friday I went off to Magnuson Park with my Aunt Sara. I ran for over an hour. I was exhausted.
Today Cathy dropped me off in the dog lounge while she ran some errands. She told the staff, “Gracie will probably be tired. She’ll want to snooze on the couch.”
Hah. As they told Cathy, I barked till they put me in the exercise area with the other dogs. I wanted to play!
Now I’m sprawled out on Cathy’s bed, sound asleep.
Not a neurotic bone in my body.
The cats, however, are another story. Especially that ditzy calico who eats my food. My food? Everybody knows cat food tastes better. Creampuff needs a chill pill.
Dog Park a Community
Our neighborhood dog park, Regrade Park in the Belltown area, used to be a scary drug park. We love going there, or at least I do. I like jumping on the walls and leaping off the ledges.
And sometimes I just need to stretch out. Yes: that’s me in the foreground of this photo. 
Mostly, I like all the attentiion I get from the other dog owners.
Yesterday we ran into a delightful woman who recognized me at once.. She cooed to me in baby talk and gave me a good butt scratch. She even brushed away some of the fur I’m shedding for summer (got the hint, mom?). Turns out she’s a physician in private practice.
I’ve also been patted by people with tattoos and piercings, people who are homeless and come to the park to share the love, people who are living in subsidized housing, people who are in the military, people who are living in mansions, lawyers, real estate agents…you name it. “Jail to Yale,” says Lindsay, our volunteer Park Steward.
There’s even a Regrade Park virtual community on yahoo. Recently, my mom read me a note from a Travel Nurse we met a few months ago. While she’d been working in Seattle, she wrote, she used to come here and she appreciated the community. She missed us!
True. My mom likes coming here because she meets real live people and has real conversations, after a day of working on the Internet with invisible people.
It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Some folks wn’t come at all. They go to the country parks.
But with a mom who hates to drive, it’s a perfect park for a CUPPIE (Canine Urban Princess) like me. I bet we go at least once over this weekend.
Dog Tired
My mom Cathy is getting frustrated with her caregiving role. She says, “Tiger bounces around just like old times. She just won’t eat enough. She’s so thin and dehydrated.”
I’m not bouncing anywhere. Yesterday we went to the dog park. I stopped for a chat and a butt scratch from some friendly folks. Cathy was not amused. “You’re here for exercise!” she said.
So I ran around so she could catch up on her conversations with the regulars. And then we walked part way home. I am still tired. My mom is too but she will never admit it.
“I refuse to say I’m getting older,” she says. “Sunday and Monday I had two tough exercises classes in a row…all weights and barbells. Who wouldn’t be a little…um…well, not bouncy?”
Hey mom, I’ll jump right in (but not literally). I’ll be six in October and I’m no puppy any more.
Our big mystery: how does that tough old tabby cat jump on to the kitchen counter? She may be on her last paws, but like Mehitabel, there’s life in the old dame yet.