The resident dog, Taxi (known around this house as “T”), revealed last night that he is sick of leading a regular dog’s life. Although his isn’t quite as ordinary as many dogs’ — indeed, he has more than most dogs could possibly ask for, including the finest kibble money can buy, more toys than an Upper West Side child, bones that could tip over Fred Flintstone’s car, a private walker/personal trainer who takes him to the Dog Spa five days a week, and an absolutely glorious new coat — he still says it’s just not enough. He’s not ungrateful for all that he has, no … in fact, last night during Thanksgiving dinner, he wept without shame as he raised his champagne glass and counted all the reasons he’s thankful … but this morning, just after he finished his huevos rancheros, he dropped a bombshell.
He wants to be a toreador.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking, ‘What bullshit.’ You think this is all just about some four-session seminar thing offered at the Learning Annex for $79. But it’s not. NYU offers a full course of study, beginning in January. I have the brochure in my book bag.”
He brought it out, and panted with excitement as he pointed to the various course descriptions. We learned that bull-fighting has been a lifelong dream of his. One of those dreams that you think is just a pipedream, that people regard as solid an idea as when someone says, “I am an actor” or “My dream is to operate my own frozen yogurt franchise” or “I want to have my own design show on Oxygen or WE, just like that maverick Courteney Cox and her kooky sidekick husband.”
“Haven’t you ever noticed,” he said, looking off into a distance only visible to him, “the gleam in my eye when I flip the little throw rug under the red chair? The passion in my jaws and my paws when, with a flourish, I flounce around the room with the yellow blanket?”
And here we’d all thought this was mere folly. A dog doing what a dog does. Toss that throw rug. Wave that blanket. (“And please,” he said, closing his eyes and fluttering them, “don’t call it a ‘blankie’.”) Little did we know it meant much much more.
“Dogs don’t just dream of rabbits and bones,” he continued. “It’s not all about kibble. There’s more out there for me, and I have to, well, grasp the bull by the horns!”
“Touché, T,” I said.
“Olé,” he said.