NEW YORK CITY DOG RUN
Hace un mes me inscribí a un curso de Feature Writing for print and digital media en la Universidad de Nueva York. Este fue mi primer texto y se los quiero compartir. No tengo versión en español pero prometo traducirlo y subirla pronto. Espero les guste. Aún queda mucho por aprender.
By Ximena Cebreros
“There is a specific dog run for small breeds, you know,” said the 50-year-old dog walker who tried to convince me to stop taking Pancho, my twelve year old, 0.8 feet, four pound, toothless chihuahua, to the regular dog run. He was the third person of the week who tried to push me into it. By the time, I was certain that segregating dogs because of their size was just another stupid “fascist” human thing to do. Clearly, I wasn’t being stubborn because he needed a good run or an intensive training session, it’s just that he has always gotten along better with bigger breeds. I guess he considers himself one of the big guys and, to be completely honest, he just loves to smell and taste pee (Yes, I mean urine, and if it comes directly from the source even better). So, taking that into consideration, big dogs seemed the perfect fit: just by standing below them he had easy access to his – disgusting and unhealthy- fountain of dreams.
On the other hand the “regular dog run” seemed way cooler: filled with successful people, all dressed in awesome clothes, drinking cups of hand picked mix of Mexican and Guatemalan beans roasted in Red Hook, overpriced coffee; and, presumably, discussing “important world matters”.
I never got to be really involved in one of those amazing debates because, despite my beliefs, I was constantly checking on Pancho. I mean, not all the dogs like to have an elder little freak licking his thingy on their morning run, right?
As a result of an infection (perhaps due to his twisted phase) we had to remove all of his teeth (he had just thirteen left out of forty-two ) so when he recovered I finally decided to switch to the other run. Let ́s face it: he wouldn ́t be able to defend himself in a fight or prove his mettle in a tense situation without any teeth. One unintentional little bite from a Doberman and game over.
On the southeast side of Washington Square Park, lies the miniature version of the big run. It’s just like the model displayed on the entrance of some venues. A kind of country house backyard in the middle of the city for entitled little brats. Miniature Galgos and Dobermans; Frenchies (cool way to call the french bulldogs) and Yorkies (ditto); Pomeranians, Poodles, Cavaliers, and some pedigree owning colleagues of my “tongue sticking out”, proudly mexican friend.
In this -nine bench, one fountain- nirvana, decorated by a live painting of the Empire State building framed in the marble Washington Arch, the furry royalty (and Pancho) stretch their paws and refresh in the summer while, depending on the hour, jazz or folk bands play in the back.