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.

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.

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 ay. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yesterday morning my mom woke up to the sound of me sneezing…and sneezing. I went on for about five minutes. Then my mom gave up and took me out for my morning walk. As soon as we got outside, I stopped sneezing.

Cathy went into her “mom on overdrive” mode. She called our vet and asked for our favorite tech, Malari. (We love all the techs but Malari has helped my mom out a lot so she feels like an old friend. Besides, we like her tattoos.)

Malari assured us, “If she stopped sneezing it’s probably no big deal. Maybe she just got some dust in her nose.”

In our house? Dust? With 2 cats, a dog and a temperamental vacuum cleaner?

“But her nose feels warm!” my mom said.

“Old wives tale. Means nothing.”

Thanks, Malari. The last thing I need is another session of prod-and-poke at the vet. I’d rather go play some games at the Dog Lounge again.

Good grief. My mom read me this story and we both felt really sad.

Sure…the guy shouldn’t be speeding, even for an important mission like taking the dog to the animal hospital. But the officer apparently said, “It’s just a dog. You can get another one.”

We’re not especially big on teacup poodles but we were pretty shocked ourselves.

My mom once read a book a long time ago, Travels with Lizbeth. A young homeless man traveled around the US with his dog, Lizbeth. Once a social worker suggested he should give away the dog to get a night at a shelter. “Who’s the crazy person?” the young man wondered.

“You can’t just get another dog,” my mom says. “Gracie, you’re very cute, but you’re not Keesha. Keesha would never chew up her own dog bed.”

Sometimes I ignore my mom and just go to sleep.

My mom Cathy belongs to the Columbia University Alumni Club of Seattle. She attended Barnard College, which is part of Columbia, so she qualifies.

Today the group held an informal picnic in a park called Golden Gardens. And of course I got to go.

“I’m really busy,” my mom said. “But we can count the time toward Gracie’s exercise and hey — it’s gorgeous weather.”

I prefer cold rainy days myself. Naturally everyone made a fuss over me. “So well-behaved,” they said. What did they expect? A rowdy puppy? I was too dog-tired to do anything but follow Cathy around on my leash and try to steal the food. Chicken — my favorite.

Alas, Cathy told everyone firmly, “No food for Gracie.” I didn’t get so much as a crumb.

Now I’ve crashed on the living room rug, dreaming of frigid days in December. But I’m glad we went. My mom needs to get out more.