We Don't Go To The Parade

Arf! Gracie here.

Yesterday my mom took off for a few hours. She wanted to go a few places where I am not allowed. I don't mind being left in my crate. For one thing, I have my favorite kong toy. I'm near a window so I catch a breeze. Best of all, my mom feels so guilty after leaving me, she takes me on a long walk when she comes home.

Sure enough, yesterday afternoon, we talked over a mile to the dog park. By evening, the weather was cool and we both enjoyed the breeze from the sea. I ran around the park for awhile, until Mom realized the big Seafair parade was happening a block away.

I hate parades. All that buzzing and honking and shouting. Last year they shot off a cannon and I almost shot through the roof. (Back then, I was still allowed in coffee shops. Another story.)

So I sat on my furry little butt and refused to budge.

We tried one block. Even Mom decided: "Too crowded! OK, Gracie, I've seen a high school band before."

She began to have second thoughts, but I won that round.

We came to a bus stop. "Good! Now we can ride home," I said, settling down to wait.

"Oh no," Mom said. "The schedules are all screwed up with parade. We'll get home faster if we talk."

"Rrr." No way.

Some nice people came by and said, "Oh look...The dog wants to wait for a bus! Isn't that cute? The poor dog..."

I tried to look sad and pathetic. Such a mean owner! But it was hard to look sad when my fur is all shiny and fluffy from my professional bath (not to mention the gourmet food my mom orders).

We walked. And we walked. We were exhausted. But I still had energy to chase the cats, especially that fat tabby who thinks she owns the place. If she were human, she would be old enough to vote. And she never lets us forget.