Tag: dogs

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.fat fuzzy ca

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.

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. me at the dog park

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.

Cats get too much attention

With our tabby cat Tiger on her last paws, my mom Cathy has been distracted. She was so excited this morning: Tiger ate almost a whole can of Fancy Feast cat food. Then she jumped up on the table and took a few sips of Cathy’s iced coffee.

“Why is it okay to drink iced coffee but not eat food from the refrigerator?” Cathy asked.

Tiger twitched her tail and headed back to her home in the closet. She likes to sleep there during the day. Fine with me. Out of sight, out of mind. More of everything for me.

Alas, our ditzy roommate Creampuff, who’s healthy as a horse, is developing a taste for all this fancy food. Mom will never get her back to crunchies.

I don’t understand finicky. It’s not in my vocabulary or my genes. Garbage or gourmet — who cares?

Who’s Top Dog In This Household?

What’s wrong with this picture? That’s a 19-year old cat, sitting on her old cushion, looking smug. It’s Tiger, the Queen of our household. cat as top dog

Sometimes I try to play with her. She’s such a grump! She just swats me with her paw and yowls tha raspy meow. Since she’s old, she’s fussier about everything.

My mom ordered a couple of cases of canned food because Tiger won’t eat dry food anymore. I think she’s lost her sense of smell.

Cathy adores Tiger. They’ve been together since spring of 1994. More than some people have been married.

Tiger used to sleep next to Mom’s pillow. Now she prefers to sleep in the closet. But during the day, she likes to sit near my mom.

When my mom works on her laptop on the couch, Tiger sleeps on the armrest next to her. When my mom eats a snack (a lot more often than she should, but don’t tell her I said that), Tiger tries to share.

“When I get old, I want someone to spoil me,” Mom says. “So I’ll spoil Tiger as much as I can.”

How about spoiling me too, Mom? I’m bigger. Double the karma.

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?”

My Dog Crate Is Really A Castle

When a Canine Urban Princess (a CUPPIE) gets tired, she retreats to her own private castle. Mine looks like an airline crate on the outside.

I inherited my crate from Keesha, Cathy’s first dog.

When Cathy adopted Keesha, about 10 years ago, she dreaded the idea of a crate. “Jail for dogs,” she shuddered.

But Keesha tortured the cats every time Cathy went out. One day Keesha tore a hole in a neighbor’s screen door, thinking the kindly neighbor was dog-napping instead of dog-sitting. Cathy immediately invested in a queen-sized crate. Keesha’s whole personality changed — for the better. And Cathy became a convert.

So when I arrived, I spent a lot of time in the crate I inherited from Keesha. Thank goodness! I had time to enjoy my own space while I adjusted to my new home and family…not to mention chewing on a rubber toy filled with royal peanut butter.

My crate has become my castle. I retreat to my castle when Cathy goes out, when I’m feeling a little under the weather or when we get visitors who operate noisy machines like vacuum cleaners and rug shampooers.
I sleep on my royal blanket and dream of a world with a dog park on every corner.

Life is hard when you’re a CUPPIE

Being a CUPPIE -a Canine Urban Princess – can be tough. Whenever my mom Cathy gets frustrated with anything, she takes me out for a walk and she gets frustrated a lot these days. I have to rouse myself from my cushion just because she needs a break.

And then whenever she meets somebody, I have to go along so Cathy can show me off. On Tuesday she decided to meet her friend, my Uncle Lance (he’s big into privacy so she can’t use his real name…gimme a break). My job was to give Uncle Lance a canine experience, since he lives in a no-dog apartment building. (Shouldn’t species discrimination be illegal?) I had to let him hold my leash and deal with all the people who wallked by and said, “Ooh, she’s so cute.”

We ended up walking over a mile. I voted for the bus but Cathy decided we need the exercise. Hah.

And then yesterday, my Aunt Sara took me for my weekly outing to Magnuson Park. I ran and ran. I played with Bailey, Violet and all my other dog friends.

My mom should be exhausted too. When her Wednesday evening class was cancelled at the gym, she booked a session with the trainer so she can work the machines. She got into some new muscle groups, she moaned as she curled up on the couch.

But no. “After today’s teleseminar,” she said to me, “we should enjoy this beautiful sunny weather.”

Uh oh. My royal calendar had marked the afternoon for a Long Hard Nap.

Being a Princess means being on call 24/7. Maybe somewhere there’s a Canine Urban Queen who gets to say, “No thank you.”

Me? I can’t even get into my own crate. Tiger the tabby cat has invaded my territory. She may be over 90 in human years but her strong right paw still packs a mean punch across my nose.

Cats are so dumb…

…and I nominate Creampuff as our very own candidate for Feline Airhead of the Year.

We have a small laundry room in our apartment. My mom keeps the dog food and cat food there. When she goes in to scoop up my daily ration, Creampuff races inside and hides behind the washing machine. Cathy turns out the light and leaves, closing the door. One minute later, she opens the door…and there’s Creampuff, waiting to jump out. You’d think we’d forced her to go in there.

Occasionally Creampuff doesn’t come out and then my mom forgets…until we hear yowls coming from behind a closed door.

But here’s the mystery. Hasn’t that cat caught on yet? What does she expect to find behind the washing machine: A rare treat? A juicy mouse? A secret door to the outside world?

To be fair, Creampuff really wanted to be an outdoor cat. But she got dumped at a shelter in New Mexico and nobody wanted her. Talk about age discrimination. A two-year-old cat is over the hill.

So when Cathy turned up, the shelter staff begged, “Please take her. She’s been here 3 whole months. So you know she’s flexible.”

Since when was flexibility a valued character trait in a cat? Needless to say, Cathy didn’t probe too deeply. She thought Creampuff was adorable.

Hey, don’t blame me. I wasn’t there. In fact, I wasn’t born yet.

Hmmm….humans have tasteless “dumb blond” jokes. So I’m going to ask my canine friends at the Dog Lounge, “Hey, did you hear the one about the calico cat who …” Works for me.

So the pope likes cats…big fat hairy deal.

Yesterday’s New York Times reported that Pope Benedict is a cat-lover…a “soul-mate” to cats, they say. Read the story here.

According to the Times, Popes have enjoyed a special affinity with cats over the years:

“Pope Paul II, in the 15th century, had his cats treated by his personal physician. Leo XII, in the 1820s, raised his grayish-red cat, Micetto, in the pleat of his cassock. And according to The Times of London, Paul VI, pope from 1963 to 1978, is said to have once dressed his cat in cardinal’s robes.”

A cat dressed in cardinal’s robes? Those guys need to get a life.

Sure, it’s nice to know that the tough-minded Cardinal Ratzinger took care of cats in the gardens of his Congregation and even bandaged their wounds. But…wounds? What were those cats fighting about? Could a little spay-and-neuter clinic be the answer? Please tell me it’s not against the Pope’s religion to … um…fix the situation.

Anyway, if the current Pope wants a little souvenir to take back to the Vatican, I’ll make the supreme sacrifice. He can have our two spoiled felines…either or both.

There would be only one downside, as far as I’m concerned. Our cats like to eat on the floor, especially our fat old tabby. Jumping up to the counter, out of my reach, gets harder as we age. So Cathy leaves a food plate on the floor when we go out.

If I’m lucky, she forgets to pick it up when we return. So I get to sneak a delicious snack. I always look very smug when this happens.

Other than that, who needs them? They take over my dog beds. They run away when I try to play. Or they even swat my nose. Cats do not understand the concept of living in community.

cat sitting on backpack

A one-way ticket to Italy…perfect.

Here’s my candidate for deportation, sitting on top of Cathy’s backpack. She looks so innocent… but don’t be fooled. Those little paws can do a lot of damage.