tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43998667347156705352024-03-13T11:10:54.876-04:00MY NAME IS GRACENOTES FROM AN AIREDALE TERRIERGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-28099306644005517102014-11-08T14:14:00.001-05:002014-11-08T14:14:22.424-05:00Walkie<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFqXDBG-zf87zjaZeCyPBRd7-bkSzZL-hbh4jgrCNmuNTUsBBxNyeVIyrhUFRtcEwsLpWQNF6q_4W4E6da8K_A8dUNUcGQsIJJlWhfHL_yqh_fqneX36nrMEUQcvftC07KPaIq1Bi5Xq8/s640/blogger-image--2124595877.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFqXDBG-zf87zjaZeCyPBRd7-bkSzZL-hbh4jgrCNmuNTUsBBxNyeVIyrhUFRtcEwsLpWQNF6q_4W4E6da8K_A8dUNUcGQsIJJlWhfHL_yqh_fqneX36nrMEUQcvftC07KPaIq1Bi5Xq8/s640/blogger-image--2124595877.jpg"></a></div>Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-8875495943136688582013-11-30T13:18:00.003-05:002013-11-30T13:18:47.514-05:00Still a Puppy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjgQVcVTqTlH4Tzx_LlS_qODM9cMgx_6VlRE_A826T9nL5nruxEw_xFiGQLk99OpjSJR0wrVQBya2d6joRITNQ5qNn1479ytERa2I_q7vn7WHQ2LbJLsVksfRy4dDKdioyzT9nX86Hdw/s1600/IMG_1480.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKjgQVcVTqTlH4Tzx_LlS_qODM9cMgx_6VlRE_A826T9nL5nruxEw_xFiGQLk99OpjSJR0wrVQBya2d6joRITNQ5qNn1479ytERa2I_q7vn7WHQ2LbJLsVksfRy4dDKdioyzT9nX86Hdw/s400/IMG_1480.jpg" width="388" /></a></div>
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<br />
Adrian's girlfriend, Darlene, took this picture of me before I could escape. I know I look like I'm posing, but but I'm not. Anyway, here I am at the ripe old age of almost 10. Then I'll be older than Liz and Ray!<br />
<br />
Grace<br />
<br />Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-88803998246798612932013-10-01T13:42:00.000-04:002013-10-01T13:42:18.171-04:00I'm back!!!In case you were wondering if I'd gone to doggie heaven, the answer is "NO!" I'm still here. Just older, still a "puppy," as Liz reminds me. I can't help myself. Instinct just kicks in. If I smell a squirrel, I'm off. If I hear a bang or thunder, I want to hide. <div>
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Next March I'll be 10 years old. Older than Liz. So, I'll be top dog in our house. YES!!!!</div>
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Grace<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRWCV-lshehEux8qu52L8z6bes8OVflhI89_2WI-Yhx0r4Gc81iZ9u44ei9-wHFGdjOJQOKLdlvh4Y3Qd3PSuKtCY53FMl-gMKVTgf_y30qylwCvdPU7UJcExUpq9PwNx1WPJoqzw8jGc/s1600/LizGrace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRWCV-lshehEux8qu52L8z6bes8OVflhI89_2WI-Yhx0r4Gc81iZ9u44ei9-wHFGdjOJQOKLdlvh4Y3Qd3PSuKtCY53FMl-gMKVTgf_y30qylwCvdPU7UJcExUpq9PwNx1WPJoqzw8jGc/s320/LizGrace.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liz and I on the bluebell trail near Manassas, Virginia</td></tr>
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Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-42782411226681556832011-06-01T14:20:00.000-04:002011-06-01T14:20:33.197-04:00HOT DOGSIt's hot as an oven here in Virginia. And so humid, my coat is frizzing up. Not that I care. <br />
<br />
Last time I went outside to chase squirrels, I thought I was at the Equator. I don't know where that is, but it sounds like a hot place. Is it?<br />
<br />
In this heat, all I want to do is sleep, drink water and stay inside, preferably on the bathroom floor.<br />
<br />
So, all you doggie parents out there, remember: We feel the heat, just like you do. Do not, I repeat, do not take us for long walks in the middle of the day. Do not leave us in your car, not even to run into Starbucks.. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG1gdpkx0j8vqrS-slvEz8wufybkte8kBADLBWuIXIGqQ3dCxvqqDGYbpcBXZAkjlRR7g0nD17LMf1rNwvAEwS4fwwfdWAN2yg5WQ51ppkUo2WmPsw-per4UygmuWmm_GuDH7Uzo1ax8Q/s1600/Grace.treat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFLPgiKlSgZN-AhQSqBGkqp80VbNswHy4MmeRhV1vYJ1NTPCd5815gewxRYJCfElPx_DaauLhTC7U_-ysEfQuIMd3QKbpoUlFSwgeAuWswzw2A5zutu1p1lKQZi8pCP0dKPx3U4Xhyis/s1600/dogtired.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFLPgiKlSgZN-AhQSqBGkqp80VbNswHy4MmeRhV1vYJ1NTPCd5815gewxRYJCfElPx_DaauLhTC7U_-ysEfQuIMd3QKbpoUlFSwgeAuWswzw2A5zutu1p1lKQZi8pCP0dKPx3U4Xhyis/s200/dogtired.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>If we look bored and mournful, ignore us. Better bored than dead. <br />
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GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-33124164017158335552011-05-10T17:45:00.000-04:002011-05-10T17:45:31.552-04:00Down with Cameras!Some dogs hate having their picture taken. I count myself among them.<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
1. I'm not a show dog, so what's the point?<br />
2. I hate to sit still and try to look adorable. I have better things to do with my time (like chasing squirrels, eating bees, begging for treats, sniffing bushes, and, of course, sleeping.<br />
3. I don't want to end up on some dumb Smilebox file or a FaceBook page. I'm a dog, not a baby.<br />
<br />
Liz thinks I have some new phobia. That's because she took lots of pictures of me in England. But, after we moved back to Virginia, I decided I'd had enough. Sure, she still tries -- sneaking up on me with her digital camera or cell phone. Most of the time I manage to run the other way. Except for that time when her friend, Daphne, took this picture of me after I jumped into her van. I couldn't help myself. I wanted to be with Bailey (sitting in the back seat). <br />
<br />
Grace<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsUaALflktZaU1lHPZVFVvAdJ-0dKKb62HWAZPfxYX_Ua59aZsQOCcua4VAdgGW6JDVcc2r6w1ujV_6z2Q15J3Z3tJvSduueg7TSdcsmngKaCuAxGPmMh6FKX09doybS3gfZRC_44qxv4/s1600/IMG_1001.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsUaALflktZaU1lHPZVFVvAdJ-0dKKb62HWAZPfxYX_Ua59aZsQOCcua4VAdgGW6JDVcc2r6w1ujV_6z2Q15J3Z3tJvSduueg7TSdcsmngKaCuAxGPmMh6FKX09doybS3gfZRC_44qxv4/s1600/IMG_1001.jpeg" /></a></div>Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-47735975230720194492011-03-02T13:56:00.000-05:002011-03-02T13:56:40.654-05:00I'm 7!Some thoughts on the occasion of my 7th birthday:<br />
<br />
1. I'll never stop looking (baffled) or acting (crazed) like a puppy. <br />
2. My fur -- um, hair -- is still thick and curly.<br />
3. I can still outrun Mom. (That's not saying much, since she's an old lady.)<br />
4. I don't sleep all the time. (OK, I snore.)<br />
5. I have an iron stomach. I'll eat anything and everything.<br />
6. I know I've put on a little weight, but I've got "good muscle tone," says the vet. <br />
<br />
My mom keeps trying to take a picture of me wearing that stupid pink "Birthday Girl" ribbon. But, I'm not having any of it. She tells me the day is "still young," whatever that means. <br />
<br />
GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-84451198237856761122011-01-03T07:17:00.000-05:002011-01-03T07:17:40.404-05:00My Human Nephew, Part 2Liz showed me how to scan pictures, so I can put them on my blog.<br />
For starters, here are two of my human nephew, Tigh Scott Hall.<br />
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Human puppies look funny to me, at least this one does. First, he has no fur. Second, I can't see a tail. Is that strange, or what?<br />
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I wonder if he's lonely, since he's the only one in his litter.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFz4dzOkCQsjdaTfLH4okEuPZuIAonxzppuXUj8rqZlU5W2FY4reKOqCttuhz77Z9qAsSL9MgwLUCJwWrg59I-HTntJxLi6q404I28G5H_bull_l8j264n2-RAWHrE2L05WM8qg747PyA/s1600/TighScott2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFz4dzOkCQsjdaTfLH4okEuPZuIAonxzppuXUj8rqZlU5W2FY4reKOqCttuhz77Z9qAsSL9MgwLUCJwWrg59I-HTntJxLi6q404I28G5H_bull_l8j264n2-RAWHrE2L05WM8qg747PyA/s320/TighScott2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-XotPBfkQvlm4i6OV5PZYUyyaDJx95zLQXFi6BTb4kKc0XIFxhmes6VdxypZxnyPQrzTTjMoEFvB16qX7kKMU0IBjEa5yZE4ycMHgXtuwh_B-HNtiCiyeMo8AMX_xJbS1p4jhfo0-O6Q/s1600/TighScott.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-XotPBfkQvlm4i6OV5PZYUyyaDJx95zLQXFi6BTb4kKc0XIFxhmes6VdxypZxnyPQrzTTjMoEFvB16qX7kKMU0IBjEa5yZE4ycMHgXtuwh_B-HNtiCiyeMo8AMX_xJbS1p4jhfo0-O6Q/s320/TighScott.1.jpg" width="314" /></a></div>GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-66195494542175869412010-12-27T12:02:00.000-05:002010-12-27T12:02:05.355-05:00MY NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS, 20111. STAY IN SHAPE.<br />
2. DON'T CLIMB ONTO LIZ'S LAP WHEN SHE'S EATING.<br />
3. DO NOT STARE AT RAY WHILE HE'S EATING.<br />
4. LEARN MORE ENGLISH WORDS, SO DAD THINKS I'M SMART.<br />
5. LEARN TO BARK IN GREEK. (I'M STILL WORKING ON THIS ONE.)<br />
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GRACE<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSptzS2oOSv-cdbESPv7-P-L5SZlOy1rybLu-qT-ii3r_TjvHiVmd4ksM3NJyoV3ARkR6R45ldJiIvRYjEnLuiuywl_wd-0xHl05mFFSrObY__SycyhTu5Z1ziTiRGIZZ0ChdZxffC9W4/s1600/pawprint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSptzS2oOSv-cdbESPv7-P-L5SZlOy1rybLu-qT-ii3r_TjvHiVmd4ksM3NJyoV3ARkR6R45ldJiIvRYjEnLuiuywl_wd-0xHl05mFFSrObY__SycyhTu5Z1ziTiRGIZZ0ChdZxffC9W4/s1600/pawprint.jpg" /></a></div>Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-14871668273916137712010-12-15T15:03:00.000-05:002010-12-15T15:03:43.316-05:00How well do you know your dog? (Part 2)<div class="zemanta-img separator" style="clear: right;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Inside-Dog-What-Dogs-Smell/dp/1416583408%3FSubscriptionId%3D0G81C5DAZ03ZR9WH9X82%26tag%3Dzemanta-20%26linkCode%3Dxm2%26camp%3D2025%26creative%3D165953%26creativeASIN%3D1416583408" style="clear: right; display: block; float: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Cover of "Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See,..." height="300" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41k36edtq3L._SL300_.jpg" style="border: none; font-size: 0.8em;" width="198" /></a><span class="zemanta-img-attribution" style="clear: both; float: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 198px;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Inside-Dog-What-Dogs-Smell/dp/1416583408%3FSubscriptionId%3D0G81C5DAZ03ZR9WH9X82%26tag%3Dzemanta-20%26linkCode%3Dxm2%26camp%3D2025%26creative%3D165953%26creativeASIN%3D1416583408">Cover via Amazon</a></span></div>My human mum used to think she knew me well. If I wagged my tail, she figured I was happy. When I twitched my ears, she believed I was paying close attention. If I tried to climb up on her lap (and, remember, I weigh 52 pounds), she thought I was pretending to be a lap dog.<br />
<br />
Then she read<i> Inside of a Dog</i> by Alexandra Horowitz. It was like a whole new world opened to her -- my world. Now she's watching me closely, trying to figure out the real me.<br />
<br />
But, I'm still a mystery to her, just like she's a mystery to me.<br />
<br />
Grace<br />
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<div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;"><a class="zemanta-pixie-a" href="http://www.zemanta.com/" title="Enhanced by Zemanta"><img alt="Enhanced by Zemanta" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/zemified_e.png?x-id=f3826e52-3256-41ff-9576-585d0337c3af" style="border: none; float: right;" /></a></div>Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-68441372702687273532010-12-12T13:46:00.000-05:002010-12-12T13:46:13.569-05:00MY HOLIDAY CARD<table bgcolor="#ffffff" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://smilebox.com/play/4d6a41344d6a597a4e54513d0d0a&blogview=true&campaign=blog_playback_link" target="_blank"><br />
</a></td></tr>
<tr><td><a href="http://www.smilebox.com/?partner=hpcs&campaign=blog_snapshot" target="_blank"><br />
</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center"><br />
<table bgcolor="#ffffff" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://smilebox.com/play/4d6a41344d6a59334d6a453d0d0a&blogview=true&campaign=blog_playback_link" target="_blank"><img alt="Click to play this Smilebox greeting" height="303" src="http://smilebox.com/snap/4d6a41344d6a59334d6a453d0d0a.jpg" style="border: medium none;" width="386" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td><a href="http://www.smilebox.com/?partner=hpcs&campaign=blog_snapshot" target="_blank"><img alt="Create your own greeting - Powered by Smilebox" height="46" src="http://www.smilebox.com/globalImages/blogInstructions/blogLogoSmileboxSmall.gif" style="border: medium none;" width="386" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="center">A <a href="http://www.smilebox.com/greetings.html" target="_blank">free digital ecard</a> by Smilebox</td></tr>
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</tbody></table>Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-6801394707967589572010-12-06T07:13:00.000-05:002010-12-06T07:13:12.599-05:00HUMAN PUPPY (PART 2)A correction from my last post:<br />
<br />
Tigh is my <i>nephew</i>, not my cousin. I guess that makes sense, since I'm older than he is. Does it? <br />
I won't know for sure until I get a good whiff of him. <br />
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GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-84938283647644492872010-12-03T15:22:00.000-05:002010-12-03T15:22:08.288-05:00A New Human PuppyBig news! My human brother, Peter, and his wife, Christine, had a human puppy this morning! His name is Tigh Scott Hall, and he weighs a little more than five pounds. I thought it was odd they had only one puppy. But, then, humans are so strange, nothing surprises me. <br />
<br />
Anyway, if Peter is my human brother, I guess that makes Tigh my human cousin. Come to think of it, I've never had a human cousin.<br />
<br />
I can hardly wait to meet him. I hope he'll want to play "sniff the tail" or "bite the ear."<br />
<br />
I tried to upload a picture of Tigh (from Christine's FB page), but I couldn't figure out how to do it.<br />
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GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-62394999044106770232010-12-03T15:04:00.000-05:002010-12-03T15:04:11.803-05:00MY HUMAN MUMMY (PART 3)My human mum is sick. <br />
<br />
How do I know? First, off I can tell by the way she moves (not quickly like she usually does). I can tell by the way she smells. This morning, for example, she smelled of cough medicine, herbal tea and antibiotics. Last night, I caught a whiff of lemon, brandy, honey and cinnamon. Mom told me it was a "hot toddy," a British "cure" that Dad whipped up for her.<br />
<br />
To her credit, she took me for a walk yesterday afternoon. But she was coughing so much, she forgot to give me any treats.<br />
<br />
I hope she gets better soon. I want my healthy mum back.<br />
<br />
Grace<br />
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Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-58295521196028051962010-10-06T06:28:00.000-04:002010-10-06T06:28:33.255-04:00I'm in love! (I am?)"Look, Gracie!" shouted my human mum. "They're here!" a big white van pulled into our driveway and parked.<br />
<br />
On these occasions, instinct (not training) kicks in. I bolted out the door and barked and barked and barked. Two humans and a huge white dog got out of the car. I didn't give a rat's ass about the humans. (I picked up that expression from my dad.) All I saw and smelled was Bailey. Bailey is a drop-dead gorgeous Old English Sheepdog with huge eyes and a winning smile (only visible right after he's been trimmed).<br />
<br />
I first met Bailey a year ago, when Liz started tutoring his human brother, Harrison. At first, we did the usual "sniff-the-tail, etc." routine humans expect of us. Sometimes we "played" (e.g., fought over my bone. Bailey usually won 'cause he's bigger.) But, most of the time we ignore each other, or so the humans surmise. <br />
<br />
Now Liz refers to Bailey as "Gracie's boyfriend."<br />
<br />
What's a "boyfriend"?<br />
<br />
Grace (confused as usual)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0ZsNCtVeQhBvP79fEoZyMs5q17eUL5ZwBqrzveHJq2l4UuGVkPIazkrx-m_TOQzzoS49bBEDcEzJ1YDUJVr7gd2PC9abq-Z0kgNoj6VwLewqkABoAuKRAqyRUvd2RnX-pOm5XnmNTp0/s320/Bailey2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bailey at home in Alexandria, Virginia</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib0ZsNCtVeQhBvP79fEoZyMs5q17eUL5ZwBqrzveHJq2l4UuGVkPIazkrx-m_TOQzzoS49bBEDcEzJ1YDUJVr7gd2PC9abq-Z0kgNoj6VwLewqkABoAuKRAqyRUvd2RnX-pOm5XnmNTp0/s1600/Bailey2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div><span id="goog_1966298018"></span><span id="goog_1966298019"></span> <br />
<div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;"><a class="zemanta-pixie-a" href="http://www.zemanta.com/" title="Enhanced by Zemanta"><img alt="Enhanced by Zemanta" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/zemified_e.png?x-id=fa3efaf5-9054-4c2f-a052-69c5c55768e0" style="border: medium none; float: right;" /></a></div>Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-72648601030835391392010-09-22T16:08:00.000-04:002010-09-22T16:08:53.513-04:00Aunt Abbey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghsnu519cfR4ODlZiW6criVu3VB1NtwyCVprto_f9Ezkh8t33M4oi1NISkbbFzNGrLWcckp8Uwu9pLYq8ixjaDTB2EEul4NL8EPuQgbpForUop9iStS3kulLm-hb34kWGYObX-F7OJuf4/s1600/IMG_0099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>I wasn't always the only Airedale in our house. For most of my life, I had Aunt Abbey for company.<br />
<br />
When I was a little puppy, she showed me the best places in the woods to do our business. She taught me how to look adorable, so Liz would give us treats. She was my role model for "sit, stay and heal." We ate together, slept side by side, and flew in an airplane without our humans all the way to London. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, we got into trouble, like the time we chased rabbits in England and upset Liz. (Dad told her it was "just instinct.") Abbey tried to teach me how to climb up on the kitchen counter and steal pork chops, sandwiches and whole loaves of bread. But, I was never as quick as she was. <br />
<br />
Abbey died while we were living in England. She was almost 14. Now, I don't have anyone to play with, except for my human mom and dad. I want a puppy!<br />
<br />
Grace<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghsnu519cfR4ODlZiW6criVu3VB1NtwyCVprto_f9Ezkh8t33M4oi1NISkbbFzNGrLWcckp8Uwu9pLYq8ixjaDTB2EEul4NL8EPuQgbpForUop9iStS3kulLm-hb34kWGYObX-F7OJuf4/s1600/IMG_0099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghsnu519cfR4ODlZiW6criVu3VB1NtwyCVprto_f9Ezkh8t33M4oi1NISkbbFzNGrLWcckp8Uwu9pLYq8ixjaDTB2EEul4NL8EPuQgbpForUop9iStS3kulLm-hb34kWGYObX-F7OJuf4/s320/IMG_0099.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunt Abbey (right) and me in Cornwall, UK</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-57326563067718231342010-09-08T16:15:00.001-04:002010-09-13T08:53:11.634-04:00GroomingWhy do you groom your dog? Let me guess. You don't want your house to smell like a kennel. You don't want your dog to look "scruffy" ("woolly" is the one I hear). You think your dog is more "comfortable" with a neatly trimmed, clean coat.<br />
<br />
Well, speaking for myself, I don't notice the difference. I don't care if I look like a lamb before the shearing season. I don't mind when my coat gets all knotty. Most important, I love smelling like a dog. It's who I am.<br />
<br />
So, don't waste your money on high-cost groomers and herbal shampoos. Just be happy that your dog is healthy and friendly and doesn't attack the UPS delivery guy or gal. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZLjFU3J8RENXbKkXR8cZiJimHF35_tD1gvSG2xL93xVIutr3NTuzVstSWSqGVveffZIEu_ZIaaYTShy2-322r7fGM_nnljwCBcRDKjU5kJJeZIVqgOLis8AjSG8v2sB6XB2tKdoWBlg/s1600/Grace.wheat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZLjFU3J8RENXbKkXR8cZiJimHF35_tD1gvSG2xL93xVIutr3NTuzVstSWSqGVveffZIEu_ZIaaYTShy2-322r7fGM_nnljwCBcRDKjU5kJJeZIVqgOLis8AjSG8v2sB6XB2tKdoWBlg/s320/Grace.wheat.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-58136525707420804572010-07-24T18:35:00.000-04:002010-07-24T18:35:34.830-04:00Pet BirdsYesterday, I happened to follow my mum, Liz, up to the third floor. I follow her everywhere. I can't help myself. That's what dogs do. <br />
<br />
While Liz was sorting out old clothes, I sniffed around. You'll never guess what I smelled -- not one, but two small cages. I knew they weren't for me (I weigh 50 lbs.) Not even my cousin Sadie Rose (she's a Miniature Schnauzer) would fit into those cages. Besides, the cages smelled like feathers.<br />
<br />
"What are those cages for?" I asked.<br />
"They're bird cages, Gracie," said Liz. "I used to have pet birds. That was before your time."<br />
"Pet birds?" I was confused, as usual. I had never met a pet bird. A pet bird would make a great companion for me.<br />
"I don't think so," said Liz, reading my mind. "I wouldn't trust you with a little bird."<br />
<br />
I can't imagine what she's thinking.<br />
<br />
GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-91920383999199606942010-07-17T06:38:00.000-04:002010-07-17T06:38:41.956-04:00Fish & ChipsAnyone who has a dog knows that we crave human food. Speaking for myself, I'm bored with the same old dog food, day after day. OK, in all fairness to my human mum, Liz, she only gets me that top-of-the-line Biljack Select. But, let's face it, the stuff tastes like cardboard. (Sorry, Mum.) Of course, she tries to vary things a bit -- with our morning yoghurt, of course, carrots, apple cores, chicken scraps, etc.. But, like you humans, I need some slack, in the food department.<br />
<br />
Now, Dad, on the other hand (my human dad), is a different story. When Mum isn't looking, he shovels all kinds of treats into my food bowl -- French fries, stir-fried beef and veggies, chunks of pork. Yummy! I still dream of that weekend when Mum was out of town and Dad and I shared (and I mean shared) a meal of fish & chips.<br />
<br />
This weekend Mum is visiting her family in New England, and Dad and I have the place to ourselves. I'm in food heaven. I'll save the details for another time.<br />
<br />
GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-58550361379608642062010-07-06T21:59:00.000-04:002010-07-06T21:59:37.439-04:00Yoga and YoghurtEnglish is a strange language, at least for me. Take the words, "yoga," and "yoghurt." To my ears, they sound like the same word. So, when Liz tells me it's time for yoga, my mouth starts watering, my stomach growls and I can't stop wagging my tail.<br />
<br />
But, instead of bouncing down the stairs, opening the refrigerator and grabbing my favorite morning snack, she sits down on a blue mat and gets into these stupid poses. <br />
<br />
A half hour later, I'm still waiting for my yoghurt.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht2HhiO-fCQb_P_KoLAgN4ryuOslGtr8l5X_alMjuhyo89EiGjWvh538h19ZJhRaC21gW6q8Ab4-ogJorFqV5G2JtNNii6IgTSw_KwY-laEVFx4aMVTRc6q07E3tsEJFOddZBASPTlRNg/s1600/Grace.downdog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht2HhiO-fCQb_P_KoLAgN4ryuOslGtr8l5X_alMjuhyo89EiGjWvh538h19ZJhRaC21gW6q8Ab4-ogJorFqV5G2JtNNii6IgTSw_KwY-laEVFx4aMVTRc6q07E3tsEJFOddZBASPTlRNg/s400/Grace.downdog.jpg" width="311" /></a></div>GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-75607156050913177852010-06-23T18:12:00.000-04:002010-06-23T18:12:34.649-04:00Cat AlertThe other day my human mum posted a picture of a her "new friend" on her Facebook page. I figured it was just another dumb human. But I snuck a look. It was a cat! A cat!<br />
<br />
Rather than sulk with my tale between my legs, I confronted her.<br />
"What's that cat doing on your Facebook page?"<br />
"That's Willy. He lives in Phillie."<br />
"And he's your friend?" I couldn't believe it.<br />
"Yeh. He's cute, for a cat."<br />
"I thought you hated cats."<br />
"I don't hate them. I just prefer dogs." She laughed and rubbed my neck. But I wasn't fooled. What if she adopted a cat to keep me from getting bored? What if she invited Willy to visit us?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWvHP3Nu6tUBRqrrwHFO4scNAgQajh70BCpSqJXR17CySiCVxXTUp7vQaXyied2U9bMjryExWoXxNZ-cX3itFUhBErCx2sVxmYI6wBGLjnIaoaMyq0veZTgWos3Gl9gkaB9_nkRNCHOM/s1600/Willy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWvHP3Nu6tUBRqrrwHFO4scNAgQajh70BCpSqJXR17CySiCVxXTUp7vQaXyied2U9bMjryExWoXxNZ-cX3itFUhBErCx2sVxmYI6wBGLjnIaoaMyq0veZTgWos3Gl9gkaB9_nkRNCHOM/s200/Willy.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Later I took another look at Willy's picture. I had to admit he looks pretty cool. But, I won't tell mum.<br />
<br />
GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-76633720732116617942010-06-09T17:02:00.000-04:002010-06-09T17:02:46.810-04:00Road TripI've been wanting to write about my road trip to Warm Springs, Virginia for the last couple of weeks. But, my human mum has been hogging the computer 24-7. (No offense to hogs.) Anyway, she finally took a break, so here I am.<br />
<br />
The occasion was her birthday. (I won't tell you which birthday, but she's not exactly in the full bloom of her youth.) <br />
<br />
As soon as we hit the road, I fell asleep. I only woke when Mum nudged me so she could stretch and I could "do my business." Frankly, the trip was boring. I didn't see or smell a single dog sticking out of a car. The only thing I smelled was gasoline fumes and rain.<br />
<br />
Warm Springs was great. I got to bully the neighbors' little dogs. I chased a couple of squirrels, Mum and I explored the village. And, best of all, we all took a four-mile walk in a forest. (It ended up to be four miles because we got lost.)<br />
<br />
Much to my embarrassment, Mum took this picture of me while I was "sleeping." I wasn't sleeping. I was just thinking with my eyes closed. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipiII0Gc0guWqvchpF40BqCgZV1nFNAj6FnfkD59k0idihxwCXacEYcdl5-9jqrF_AX5p0EWqrB9qJwrymILkvnOXZKEcHTYHcTV6bePCPCptSKn3mLaT0o-zsLI0I3um2bMiys-4HKG0/s1600/Gracie.car.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipiII0Gc0guWqvchpF40BqCgZV1nFNAj6FnfkD59k0idihxwCXacEYcdl5-9jqrF_AX5p0EWqrB9qJwrymILkvnOXZKEcHTYHcTV6bePCPCptSKn3mLaT0o-zsLI0I3um2bMiys-4HKG0/s200/Gracie.car.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-87009242023214260412010-05-10T14:49:00.000-04:002010-05-10T14:49:29.272-04:00A Room of my Own<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbXkRpwY5Ha9SNkCaVrETHVG8o9QAGWZ1cDqMCKyhheDJ6AxPha-V4E-X4UlJmHftkEfu5bO1yw1sLI4fFHHjoa2hL57QywYpIsQM6Gs9VFf3Oe9FMdEIosHBCuFfMsPUVMIUs1i6kbU/s1600/Gracesylvia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbXkRpwY5Ha9SNkCaVrETHVG8o9QAGWZ1cDqMCKyhheDJ6AxPha-V4E-X4UlJmHftkEfu5bO1yw1sLI4fFHHjoa2hL57QywYpIsQM6Gs9VFf3Oe9FMdEIosHBCuFfMsPUVMIUs1i6kbU/s200/Gracesylvia.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My mom took this picture of me<br />
when I was just a puppy. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>I admit it. I'm spoiled. I have my own room. Not just some small alcove off the kitchen or a pathetic dog house outside. I have a big bedroom, complete with a double bed, desk, huge closet and a reading lamp.<br />
<br />
It didn't start out as my room. First it was Peter's room. (He's one of my human brothers.) But, then Peter got married and moved to Texas. So, my mom turned it into a guest room. <br />
<br />
I figured, why waste it on the occasional guest when I live here all the time?<br />
<br />
Now all I need is a TV and a laptop.<br />
<br />
GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-48703403746387464192010-04-24T21:24:00.001-04:002010-06-23T17:15:07.751-04:00A Forest Walk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGAA_-zoWyq8CwPQU9gf5rQOdBYRVgbz-nLBTOaplGrOmkYRb8fslVKe2C3NBIwbN8hYTVoOy1XOxxKagynLmUJ8fnvZK9ze0NcyLdia2415kL-e2VV_tKPSeS4OYUu-Du7huLdaOaXI/s1600/Bluebells.Grace:Liz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGAA_-zoWyq8CwPQU9gf5rQOdBYRVgbz-nLBTOaplGrOmkYRb8fslVKe2C3NBIwbN8hYTVoOy1XOxxKagynLmUJ8fnvZK9ze0NcyLdia2415kL-e2VV_tKPSeS4OYUu-Du7huLdaOaXI/s320/Bluebells.Grace:Liz.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span">Last weekend my mum took me for a walk along the bluebell trail in Nokesville, Virginia. Good thing her friend, Michele, and Michele's mummy, Inez, came with us. Without them, we would have gotten seriously lost and never found the bluebells. Mum has a terrible sense of direction. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">Just as I got into the smells and rhythm of the forest, we had to stop. Mum insisted we pose for a picture. Michele whipped out her camera and snapped away. I couldn't just stand there and pose, like some show dog. I felt restless, so I just kept moving. I just couldn't help myself. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">Anyway, here's a picture of Liz and me with the bluebells. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">Grace</span>Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-61989142796606636052010-04-21T15:27:00.000-04:002010-04-21T15:27:01.126-04:00ShowersHave you ever taken a shower with your dog? Why would you?<br />
<br />
My mum takes a shower with me once every two weeks! Why so often? Because I have a little skin condition. The vet sold her this rip-off shampoo and "suggested" I shower once a week. That's a bit much, even for Liz. So, we've settled for a bi-weekly routine.<br />
<br />
Here's the scenario: I know it's shower time, when I hear the word "shower." After ten minutes of chasing me 'round the house, she grabs me by my collar and drags me (yes, drags me) upstairs and into the bathroom. Then she pushes me into the tub. I then suffer the humiliation of being hosed down, shampooed, rubbed and rinsed while she sings to me.<br />
<br />
I don't care if it helps my skin condition. I don't care if I smell like a dog. I hate showers.<br />
<br />
GraceGracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4399866734715670535.post-79294900639189867002010-03-26T08:13:00.001-04:002010-06-23T17:24:31.740-04:00My Weight Update<span class="Apple-style-span">I hate to admit it, but my mummy's "boot camp" is working. After a week of afternoon speed walks, fewer treats (except from my human dad), and more romps 'round the surrounding woods, I'm back to my fighting weight and shape. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">So, does Mum loosen things up a bit and let me get back to pigging out and lying around all day? No way. "Your challenge is to keep the weight off and stay in shape so you can take care of me in my old age," she tells me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">I know she's no "spring chicken," but to me, she's just a tall, young two-footer with no fur or tail. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">What would life be without a tail? </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">Grace</span>Gracehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03899361999551414439noreply@blogger.com1