WNBA Storm Basketball: My Mom the Fan

My mom Cathy discovered basketball about 10 years ago. At first she didn’t know what a point guard was, but now she’s a die-hard WNBA fan.

Here she is, dressed appropriately for a Seattle Storm game in the WNBA shirt she bought when shebasketball first saw a game in 2004, and the dorky Storm cap she bought in 2005. She’s posing with our neighbor Diana just outside Key Arena where fans mourn a 7-point loss to the Connecticut Sun.

Diana played college hoops so my mom always asks her to explain the finer points of the game.

Big deal. As far as I’m concerned, Diana’s only virtue is she’s co-owner of my awesome dog pal, Bailey. I get so excited when I see Bailey out walking with one of her owners. My mom pulls on my leash and yells, “No jumping!” Yeah, right.

My mom always gives me a pre-game walk around the neighborhood. She wears her Storm shirt and cap and we greet all the other fans who are similarly attired. I’m embarrassed to be seen with her in public in that outfit, so I do my business quickly and give her that special “Let’s go home” tug on the leash.

“Where else can I wear that t-shirt?” Mom says. “I’ve got half a dozen free ones from the Storm and other t-shirts from events in New Mexico and….”

Ever hear the saying, “Whoever dies with the most toys wins?”

I don’t know about toys, but at this rate my mom Cathy will eventually die with the most t-shirts. In the arena of dressing for comfort, she’s the big winner.

“So I chewed a shoe…what’s the fuss about?”

Uh oh…My mom Cathy got into a long phone call this morning. She was clicking on her laptop, intensely muttering about blogs and teleseminars and keywords…and totally ignoring me.

So what’s a dog to do? I decided to help my mom out. See, Cathy really, really hates dressing up. She totally detests dress shoes, which she defines as anything except Asics and Birkenstocks. .dog chewing shoe

Now, I happen to know these loafers pinch her feet. She can barely walk across the room in them. And they’re not exactly in style. She needs to throw them out.

So I’m going to accelerate the process. Mmm…delicious leather. Probably fake, but who cares?

Yeah, I’ve got a handful of chew toys. But why eat hamburger when you can have steak? And why go for a chew toy when you can have a shoe? Yum.

My mom doesn’t get it. She’s using words that should not be uttered in the presence of a CUPPIE. My royal ears are sensitive.

“Gracie, I have a speaking engagement next week! I have to look presentable! What will I wear?”

Well, if it were me, I’d pad across the room in my bare paws. Who says dogs are dumb?

Good thing I’ve got an outing planned with my Aunt Sara. We’ll go run in the park while my mom goes to the gym and runs her errands and works. By tomorrow, the shoes will be in the garbage, where they belong, and my mom will go out and choose a new pair of running shoes.

“Maybe I’ll get a pedicure and wear my Birkies,” Mom said wistfully.

Good idea. Never mind that she’s never had a pedicure, but I get one with every bath. Go for it, mom!

Basketball: who needs it?

My mom came home in a really good mood tonight (Wednesday the 11th). Tonight’s game, she said when we went for our walk, was the best of all worlds. She got to see one of her favorite players, Diana Taurasi, make a series of 3-pointers that were pure magic. And we (the Storm home team) won the game by 7 points.

“The difference was,” she told  a friend, “the Phoenix Mercury played like they have a game plan. We played like…well, we were lucky.”

Cathy likes Taurasi’s larger than life personality and her maverick style. But now she admires Yolanda Griffith and Sheryl Swoopes,  playing past the age when most players retire.

As a dog, I would rather play “chase the tennis ball” or “stick tug of war” with my friends Bailey and Violet. Who needs to keep score?

I’m just ready to go to bed. My mom’s writing this after midnight. She had to come up and catch up on everything she missed when she went to the game.

Come on, Mom. Maybe you’ll be a basketball player in your next life. Meanwhile I need another nap.

“Dog’s Life: I don’t get no respect…”

Do you see this nice dog bed? That’s MY dog bed. Cathy bought it for me at Bed Bath & Beyond.

It’s really special because my mom Cathy bought it just for me. My other beds are inherited from Cathy’s First Dog, the sainted Keesha.

So I love this bed. It’s the only place I deign to sleep on the floor.

And look who’s invaded MY territory and who’s sleeping on MY bed. Yep…that ditzy Creampuff. Notice her body language. She’s saying, “I am not paying attention to you. You do not exist.”

Cats do not recognize when they are in the presence of royalty.
“She was here first,” my mom says. “You’re bigger than she is. You get to go outside.”

True. But how does that cat manage to look so smug even when she’s sleeping? Notice I’m keeping my distance and my dignity…and my chew toy.

Birkenstocks bring back memories…

Yesterday I blogged about Mom’s defeat (or should I say de-feet) by a blister induced by an over-zealous pair of running shoes.

Today my mom’s Birkenstocks are getting into the act and rubbing against her toes.

My mom Cathy has very bad shoe karma. That’s probably why I’ll never wear booties, unless I become an Alaskan sled dog. With a mom who takes cover at the sight of a single snowflake, that scenario is not likely.But the Birkies brought back memories, she was telling someone on the phone.

“People used to think I was a hippie,” she said. “I was never a hippie. Back then I wore make-up and dress shoes.”

That’s hard to believe. But I do believe she never did drugs. In this house, all the prescriptions have my name on them.

The only drug in our house is catnip. My mom loves to say that.

“Back in the 1980s, I was living in San Francisco and going to grad school,” she was reminiscing. “I was in one of those funky studio apartments in between the Tenderloin and Pacific Heights. One day I hired a handyman (recommended by our building manager) to put up screens for the cats and add a shelf. As he leaving, he said, ‘Oh, I found your stash.'”

I just imagine my mom freaking out, even back then. She was terrified some former tenant had left a pile of drugs and would either come back for them or send over the narc squad.

So I am not surprised to hear she demanded, “Show me.”

And then…

“Ohmygod…you smoked the catnip!”

The handyman (who had a very colorful past involving all sorts of things that would be considered edgy even in SF) turned bright red. He said, “Well, it wasn’t a very good high. But please don’t tell anybody.”

Of course my mom told everybody, but they didn’t run in the same circles, so it was no big deal.

Frankly, I’m surprised my mom didn’t demand a replacement for the smoked catnip. At that time she had just one cat, Kitty, a sweet but rather neurotic calico whose size earned her the “Goodyear” nickname.

How do you explain to your cat, “Your weekly fix has just gone up in smoke?”

“Mom slows down…”

My mom Cathy tends to ignore most physical symptoms with, “It’ll just go away if we wait.”

She says she gets her philosophy from the time she actually visited doctors who were prejudiced against women, especially single women. Eventually she stopped going to doctors because, she says, “I don’t have to pay big bucks to hear, ‘It’s all in your mind.’ ”

Of course she drags me to the vet if I sneeze twice in a row, but that’s another story.

But Cathy finally admitted her running shoes were creating a blister. She switched shoes so the yucky red area would be exposed to air and heal, a trick she learned when I got nicked at the dog park last year.

sneakersDoes anyone remember the episode on Seinfeld where Kramer goes to a dog doctor for a cough? My mom didn’t laugh. She thought it was a great idea.

Cathy dug out her only other pair of wearable shoes: her 10-year-old Birkenstocks. Not quite as comfy as her running shoes so we’re walking less.

Yesterday we bussed to the dog park and I had to run around whether I wanted to or not.

“We can’t go on a long walk,” my mom said, “or I’ll get new blisters from the Birkies. So you’d better run around now.” She herself went to an exercise class where she got to go barefoot.

Someone once told my mom, “A tired dog is a good dog.” That’s one saying she never forgot.

What happened to, “Dogs need treats every day?” I like that rule.

Baby-proofing your dog? Gimme a break…

Today’s Wall Street Journal featured an article about services who help baby-proof your dog.

What?!

My mom, Cathy, interrupted my morning snooze to tell me, “Some people pay trainers to help their dogsbaby and dog deal with a new baby!”

OK, big deal. I’ve never lived with a baby. When I see them in carriages I go up and sniff them. They’re sort of a cross between a person – like my mom – and a cat, like that ditzy Creampuff we live with. So I’m very gentle. In fact, I’m nice to everything except motorcycles and skateboards.

It seems that people are paying trainers to prepare the dog for the arrival of the baby. They walk strollers with fake doll babies. They stop spoiling their dogs.

One of Cathy’s clients told her awhile back, “When the baby comes, your priorities shift.”

Fortunately we will not be facing that challenge. I told you: Cathy’s not exactly the Earth Mother type. We won’t even be getting a kitten.

But Cathy had an idea. Right next to the baby-proofing article was another article about people who are going broke in the recession. Why don’t some of those people become dog walkers, dog sitters and dog trainers (if they’re qualified, of course)? My Aunt Sara is so booked up she’s Not Taking New Dogs. I got on the list just in time.

But don’t rush into this field unless you’re really committed. CUPPIES like me require a lot of attention. Cathy can’t leave me alone for a minute. She’s somewhat overprotective, but I love it.

Okay, back to my nap. Next time Cathy gets excited about an article, I hope she’ll just blog about it…quietly.

Economics of Dog Ownership

My mom Cathy was discussing Richard Florida’s book, Who is Your City.

“Florida’s right about home ownership,” she was saying. “He says home ownership restricts mobility. He’s got some good ideas about revising rentals.

“But,” she went on, “he missed some other factors that keep us from being mobile. Health insurance is a biggie.”

Right. But what was his greatest omission?

Richard Florida says that communities who welcome gay and lesbian couples enjoy greater economic prosperity than those who don’t.

But what about cities who welcome Canine Urban Princes and Princesses? Seattle would rank Number 1 – and it’s one of the most prosperous cities in the United States. Lots of jobs. Ridiculous property values.

When Mom wanted to move from New Mexico, she chose Seattle because the city is more dog-friendly than her other choices. She’s never been crazy about the rain. But she loves the dog parks and the fact that I’m welcome in all sorts of places. She loves taking me on buses.

And when dogs are welcome, owners spend more discretionary income.

At one time, our favorite coffee shop, Uptown Espresso in Belltown, allowed dogs. You’d see me and my canine friends, snoozing away under the tables. One lady even brought me a muffin because I was so good. (My mom refused to let me eat it, of course.)

Then the Health Department stepped in. No more dogs! Now Cathy makes her own coffee at home most of the time.

It’s not exactly scientific. After all, I’m a dog. What do you expect – controlled experiments?

Maybe Richard Florida’s next book will have a place for dogs. If they need cover art, I’m prepared to pose naked, with or without a moving van.

Species discrimination? Media favors the fat cats.

Uh-oh. My mom Cathy usually fast-forwards through the television commercials.

This time she didn’t pull the trigger fast enough and we caught a commercial for (what else) Fancy Feast Cat Food.cat enjoying food

This well-regarded company has come out with a new flavor — Chicken Tuscany.

Tuscany? Gimme a break. Does Fancy Feast really add these subtle flavorings and by the way, who’s doing the taste testing? How do we know cats share human tastes?

And where is the canine equivalent of Fancy Feast? Imagine a commercial with one of those toy breeds, featuring some gourmet dinner served in a designer dish.

Let’s get real. Feature a mixed breed adopted dog like me, eating a delicious bowl of crunchies following a hard day’s nap. A hungry dog doesn’t care about the dish and won’t notice the subtlety of the flavors. We’re not finicky like those cats. I won’t even tell you what I eat in the dog park.

But if push comes to shove, I won’t turn down a delicately flavored dish of Burgndy beef…heavy on the beef, please, with a couple of peanut butter treats for dessert.

Dog and Owner go to the Folk Festival (with mixed feelings)

Yesterday evening my mom Cathy decided we should go to the Folk Festival for my evening walk. We’re just ten minutes away, by foot and paw.

“We should take advantage of Seattle,” Cathy said.

Good! I love festivals:seattle folk festival

  • Lots and lots of people (so I get tons of attention – one total stranger gave me a full-body massage)
  • Lots of food on the ground so I can nibble my way through the park
  • It’s easy to steal food from somebody who’s balancing a paper plate and a drink on the grass
  • Lots of dogs (so I can jump up and say hello).

Mom hates festivals because

  • Lots and lots of people (she gets claustrophobic in crowds)
  • Lots of food on the ground (her arm hurts from pulling me away from a limitless supply of snacks).
  • No place to eat (balancing a dripping plate while sitting on the itchy grass isn’t her idea of a dream meal)
  • Lots of dogs (because most of them don’t want to play and they get nervous when I jump up to greet them)

“Well, let’s check out the music,” Mom said bravely, steering us to one of the stages.

Alas, she concluded, Arlo Guthrie is the only folk singer she wants to hear these days, preferably from a comfy seat in Benaroya Hall.