Not his walk, which, as with most dogs, can be more of waddle. And not his tail. I don't need a tail. I have enough trouble buckling my pants as it is.
Also, I can live without his bathroom habits, which can be summed up this way: "Tree or bush? Tree or bush? Aw, how about right here on the grass..."
No, what I admire about Metro is his fascination with the simple routine of life. Every day for him is like boarding the space shuttle. For example: In the morning, if I move just one muscle...there he is. The canine answer to Richard Simmons. He is so worked up, he doesn't know which will get my attention...a lick of the face, a nuzzle of the hand. So he does both. "Oh boy oh boy oh boy!" he seems to pant. "It's morning and I'm gonna outside! Is this great or what?"
Never mind that going out has not changed one bit since we've had him. He is so thrilled by the notion of "exit". He bolts into the yard as if heading for Tomorrowland with a sack full of "E" tickets.
The great outdoors.
Then comes the "bathroom" routine, which I already have described. Humans deal with these functions begrudgingly. Not Metro. It's a real thrill for him. He scouts for the perfect spot as if looking for beachfront real estate. "Tree or bush? Tree or bush?" And we don't have that many trees.
Then, once his business is taken care of, he is off the going out obsession and onto a new one: going back in. It doesn't matter that he was inside just minutes ago. "Things have changed! Things have changed!" he seems to pant. "I gotta get in there! I gotta check it out! Hurry up, hurry up!"
When I open the door, he bolts in, races back and forth - looking for space aliens, I suppose - and when he doesn't find any, he isn't disappointed. Instead, he snarls at some ratty toy he's played with for months, throws it into the air with his teeth, and watches it land. "Look at that!" he seems to say. "It goes up, it comes down!"
I yawn.
Then there's his food. Never mind that he has eaten every morning since he was born. Or that he's had the same food every morning. He waits breathlessly as I scoop yet another helping of boring brown nuggets into his bowl. "Oh boy oh boy oh boy! Food, food, food!"
I slouch and yawn again.
As I make a cup of coffee, he jumps up to watch. "Whatcha doin? Whatcha doin? Coffee, huh? That's amazing!"
When I disappear behind a door, he lies down outside and waits for me to come out again. If it is only 30 seconds later, he will still react as if I was a released hostage.
The sunny side. Now, Metro does not work. He does not pay taxes. He does not create anything new (unless you consider the bushes outside). But he also doesn't need clothes, doesn't covet cars or jewelry, and doesn't care about houses, as long as he can find a sunny spot on the floor and lie there for a few hours.
Meanwhile, I am bored with my same routine. Getting up is a drag. I can't get excited about breakfast. And going out then coming back only makes me wonder how many flies I've let in.
So I'm trying to imitate Metro. I'm trying to find wonder in the everyday. After all, when you think about it, it is pretty remarkable that you open your eyes each morning. And since every few hours you get to quench your hunger, well, that's a thrill, when you consider the alternative. So while I can't match my dog's drool, I am trying to match his zeal.
Don't worry. If I come to visit, I will not create a new bush or tree. On the other hand, a nap in that sunny spot on the floor looks pretty tempting...
2001
"Sunny Spot on the Floor"
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